


Make Mad the Guilty

by crimsonswirls, remyllian_fire



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Community: paperlegends, M/M, Shakespeare's Macbeth, Suicide, Violence, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls/pseuds/crimsonswirls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyllian_fire/pseuds/remyllian_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of his father's oppressive reign, Arthur takes destiny into his own hands. Encouraged and assisted by Merlin, he takes his father's life. With Arthur on the throne, they expect Uther's death to mark the beginning of a golden age for Camelot, but nothing goes the way they wanted. Arthur's ascent to the throne sends both of them into paranoia and they see enemies at every corner. They endanger their own lives and the kingdom they want to protect as they become consumed by the immensity of their deeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Mad the Guilty

**Author's Note:**

> I had a blast writing this. Well, there were definitely times when I struggled and there were quite a few setbacks early in the process, but it was still fantastic.  
> [Crimsonswirls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls/pseuds/crimsonswirls), you are absolutely incredible, and your art is GORGEOUS. I'm so glad we got to work together, even if we never got to talk much. Your art makes me weep with its beauty. I will never get over how lovely it is and how talented you are. You're wonderful. Seriously, everybody needs to take a look at her fantastic art. It's integrated with the story, but it's also [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/954537) for your viewing/commenting pleasure.
> 
> A thousand thanks to Kerry, who was incredibly helpful as my beta. You really helped me whip the story into shape, and I'm SO grateful for that. It wouldn't be the same without your input.  
> And KIMM... you may not realize it, but not only was your editing and commentary extraordinarily helpful, but absolutely necessary. You honestly kept me sane while I wrote this. I probably would have failed ages ago if it wasn't for you.
> 
> This is heavily inspired by Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ , and the title is from a line in _Hamlet_. I might have a thing for Shakespearean tragedy.

It's pathetic, really, how Merlin reveals his magic to Arthur – unintentional and entirely ridiculous. Upon unlocking the door to his chambers one afternoon, he finds Merlin levitating his belongings arbitrarily around the room. It should be hilarious, objectively speaking. It's impossible to think objectively, however, when Merlin is magically _playing_ with the furniture. Magic is being toyed with on his bed, and it's the worst joke. Merlin looks up, eyes wide. A jar clatters to the ground, miraculously not shattered, but other things remain mid-air. They stare blankly at one another for some time, as frozen in place as the floating items. At last, Merlin breaks the silence.

"I thought I'd locked the door."

"You didn't," Arthur responds weakly, trying to process the sight before him, but it's difficult to comprehend it as reality. Outside of occasionally wondering if Merlin's stupidity was the work of magic, he never considered the possibility of Merlin actually possessing magic.

"You're back earlier than I expected."

Merlin's clearly stalling by making pointless statements; it irritates Arthur. It spurs him into action.

"Get out of here. I don't want to see you in here again."

Off his feet in an instant, Merlin approaches Arthur. Each step he takes is cautious and hesitant.

"Arthur, let me explain," Merlin implores, a hand outstretched, but when Arthur flinches, he withdraws instantly.

"I mean it," Arthur warns. "I don't want you here. I don't want to see you. Don't touch me. Leave before I have you put in the stocks."

"I'd rather you did."

Bitterness bleeds through his words, and Arthur resents it enough to act out of spite and selfishness.

"I'll lock you up myself," he decides, not even thinking it through.

He follows through with the threat, surprising himself with the ease of it as he takes Merlin – who is frustrating in his easy compliance – to the stocks for the day. He tells anyone who asks that it's because Merlin insulted him excessively. In truth, while it does feel like an insult, he mostly feels betrayed. It's an insult that Merlin would keep such a secret from him, that he would keep _anything_ secret, that Merlin would feel he couldn't trust Arthur. More than just constant companions in bed, they'd been confidants for more time than is easily measurable; so much time and history between them, yet this great secret lurked in Merlin's mind. Unable to speak with him and unwilling to listen, Arthur refuses to see Merlin even after the hours he spends humiliated in the stocks. He sends Merlin away for weeks, fuming in solitude all the while.

Despite insisting that Merlin keep his distance, Arthur still finds breakfast waiting for him beside his bed every morning, his chambers remain clean, his armour retains its shine, along with the completion of every one of Merlin's other chores that Arthur had definitely _not_ reassigned in Merlin's absence. The only part of his daily routine that doesn't come back is the most significant, the most important – Merlin's constant presence during the day and warm, solid comfort in Arthur's bed at night. He does his best to pretend he doesn't miss that.

With every day that Merlin completes his duties despite orders not to, Arthur's anger slowly ebbs away, and each day he feels guiltier than the last. He misses Merlin, and he needs reconciliation. Weeks later, he happens upon Merlin again. At the sound of the door opening, Merlin jumps away from the hearth. He doesn't make to leave. There's no way of knowing for certain, not when he refuses to ask, but he might have been stoking the flames – or possibly just sitting there, waiting for Arthur. The resolute look in Merlin's eyes makes Arthur believe the latter option. Regardless, Merlin's presence near the fire is so reminiscent of the last time they were in this room together that Arthur wants to laugh – until he thinks of how he'd sent Merlin away before letting him speak a word in his own defence.

"You didn't replace me," Merlin says, finally.

"I told you to stay away," Arthur reminds him, though he shuts the door behind him and crosses his arms, intentionally blocking the way out.

"You still needed clean bedding." Merlin shrugs as he speaks, as if it's the only possible explanation. "And you didn't replace me."

They stare at each other in uncomfortable silence appears to be an unpleasant habit that they've come to share. The quiet intensifies and pervades the space between them. It lasts long enough that Arthur thinks he might have to send Merlin away again just to make his skin stop tingling with uncertainty and anticipation, but he can't convince himself to do that to Merlin again. Not when he still has questions. At this point it's a matter of principle to not be the one who breaks the silence. He wants Merlin to willingly break it first, to give some sort of explanation on his own terms. He has thought long enough about Merlin's initial revelation that he wants to hear an explanation, deserves one even.

Merlin takes longer to speak than Arthur expects, but in the moment just before he does, the expression on his face crumbles into a hybrid of despair and apology. Suddenly, a measure of understanding dawns on Arthur; while he has gradually become less angry and shocked at the idea, the terse situation has taken hold of Merlin. Now Arthur sees the fear that holds Merlin back. Slumped shoulders, arms dangling uselessly at his sides, face twisted into a jumbled mess of emotions; he looks utterly defeated. Part of Arthur is tempted to set aside his own annoyance to pull Merlin into his arms and comfort him. The rest of his mind, however, desperately needs Merlin to say something, anything, in his defence, to explain himself.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin stammers. "So sorry. I've wanted to tell you for so long."

For a moment, Arthur feels triumphant that he didn't cave and speak first, but it doesn't feel like a victory ought to. There's nothing to gain from the misery in Merlin's strangled apology. Not with that fright lingering in Merlin's eyes. He doesn't seem even slightly angry with Arthur. The momentary swell of excitement deflates, leaving him to feel guilty instead.

"But you didn't," Arthur barks out, when he remembers his right to rage. "You didn't tell me at all. I thought... I thought we both trusted each other fully, that you trusted me as much as I trust you. You've deceived me for a long time; using magic behind my back."

Merlin merely nods mutely and waits patiently for Arthur to continue on his tirade. Fear is still evident on his face; worry lines crease his forehead, his lips are pursed, eyes bright with what might even be tears. Arthur does his best to ignore it. It doesn't do anything to justify his angry outburst.

"Why didn't you break free when I put you in the stocks? Since you have this... I'm sure you could have done that."

"I would never do that to you," Merlin is calm, his expression carefully neutral, except his eyes quietly beg Arthur to understand something that is just outside Arthur's comprehension.

"Could you, though?" Arthur asks, stepping closer, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest. He doesn't give Merlin a chance to respond before reiterating his point. He doesn't understand why he pushes for an answer, but he has to. "Answer me. Is that within your power?"

"Easily." The word is so quiet that it almost goes unheard. Its implication sends a chill down Arthur's back.

"I can't believe you've been lying to me for so long."

"I did want to," Merlin whispers. "I have always wanted to tell you. I'm so sorry."

The earnest apology strikes a chord of both fear and respect in Arthur. The truth strikes Arthur suddenly – the reality that a man, one who has so much power of his own, would willingly choose a life of servitude rather than gain it and hold it above others as a weapon and a tool to further his own interests. Merlin drops his head, finally breaking the uneasy eye contact between them. Relief courses through Arthur at that, especially when he considers how much easier it will make it to say his next words without Merlin staring back at him.

"I don't deserve this at all," Arthur announces, rubbing a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted.

Merlin jerks his head back up. So much for getting away from that wide-eyed gaze easily. The worry lines furrow deeper on his brow, which only makes Arthur feel worse, and he wishes he could get rid of them. It's something Merlin could likely will into reality permanently if he wanted. His fingers itch to smooth that concern away, but he turns his head away sharply to distract himself.

"I know. You don't. Please, Arthur," Merlin pleads, the sound coming out as barely more than a squeak. He takes a shaky step forward, stretching out a hand until it is within reach of Arthur's shoulder, but then he seems to rethink the gesture and drops his arm again. "However you want me to make it up to you, I'll do it, I swear. Anything."

The desperation in his declaration catches Arthur off-guard. It takes a moment before he realizes that it's his own fault.

"No! No, that isn't what I meant," Arthur's voice is quiet, yet certain, as he continues. "You're not indebted to me. Well, I don't like this, but what I meant... I meant just the opposite. I don't deserve you. Merlin, I don't know why you've served me these past years when you could be doing so much more."

"There's nothing more I'd rather do!" Merlin interjects. "You don't understand, Arthur. This is where I'm meant to be, and if you'll let me stay, then you'll—"

"Then I'll still be tired of the interruptions," Arthur retorts angrily, but instantly feels ashamed when Merlin instantly recoils. "I don't want you to make up for anything. I know that you're loyal. Your silence – your silence and perseverance while I punished you these past weeks – is extraordinary, and not just because you usually can't shut up. You could have defied me. You could have released yourself from the stocks after I unfairly locked you up. You could have done many things, I'm sure, but you didn't. I don't deserve your faith, and I should be apologizing to you for my reaction."

He knows he's babbling, but he can't stop. He's so long-winded that he feels like Merlin. He idly wonders if Merlin could forcibly make Arthur ramble. But Merlin listens more attentively to his confusing words than he usually does to Merlin's, and he's certain that no enchantments are being cast.

"Don't think that you're allowed to keep secrets from me, though. Merlin, I--" and the next part is even harder. Why is it so hard? "I'm uncertain about your magic, but I'm certain about you. I don't want you to leave, and I don't want you imprisoned. I don't want a repeat of what happened with Morgana, of the problems she still causes."

"Arthur, I'm not going to declare you my enemy and try to take the throne at every opportunity! Please don't—"

"Let me finish!" Arthur snaps. "It's not just that. I don't want you anywhere but at my side. I don't want you to leave out of fear for me, and I certainly do not want you to be taken away from me. But I need time to grow accustomed to it, and I need you to always be honest with me."

"Of course, Arthur."

They hover on the edge of the strangest silence of the day. In fact, it's likely the most uncomfortable silence between them, as far as Arthur can recall. Merlin looks so pleased that Arthur half expects him to start jumping up and down like a small child at any moment. Instead, he surges forward, hugging Arthur tightly before he has the chance to react. He had missed that comfort more than he'd be willing to admit. The feeling of Merlin's arms around him is familiar, as is the surge of affection he feels, but it still startles Arthur, visibly jarring him and stunning him into stillness.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says, pulling away until Arthur can see the offended look on his face for just a brief moment before he ducks his head. "Like you said before, you don't want— We've returned to a point where you don't want me to touch you, haven't we? I'm sorry, I should have known. I won't anymore."

"No. Don't be sorry," Arthur insists, though his voice cracks slightly.

Merlin gives him an odd look of admiration and confusion that Arthur wonders what can be seen on his own face.

"You won't change your mind and have me executed later, will you?" Merlin asks with a faint smile on his lips but concern in his eyes.

"Never," Arthur promises. "It still doesn't entirely make sense, but I do trust you, Merlin. For whatever reason, I have faith in you."

Merlin's smile is so dazzling and _open_ that Arthur feels blinded. There's a certain sense of freedom in Merlin's countenance that is entirely new to Arthur. The sight of it makes him want to draw Merlin close again and never let go. Merlin doesn't move again, leaving it up to Arthur, who pulls him into a hug again, silently promising to never give Merlin cause for doubt like that again.

Time passes quickly, and they spend months adjusting to each other again, with Arthur re-learning to trust and Merlin learning to be straightforward and honest. When Uther contracts an illness that Gaius is not familiar with, the king's immediate assumption is that sorcery is its origin. Gaius finds a way to heal him nonetheless, and he tries to persuade Uther otherwise, but the king is unwilling to believe it was unrelated to magic. His hatred of magic surges in intensity once more, and Arthur grows increasingly worried.

"He could discover you," he frets one evening, toying with Merlin's hair as they lie on Arthur's bed.

Merlin just rolls his eyes, and continues to watch the room tidy itself. It's not uncommon anymore, but it is still strange. It's a sight that Arthur would watch with interest, if he wasn't so distracted by the glint of magic in Merlin's eyes and the relaxed smile on his lips.

"I've been practicing magic under his nose for years," Merlin reminds him, pressing close to nuzzle against his neck, and the ensuing warmth between their bodies feels wonderful. "He isn't going to find me now."

They have this conversation frequently, yet Arthur is still not comforted. Not that Merlin tries makes him feel better about it.

"I did."

"Yes, you're very smart, and it only took years for you to catch on," Merlin says, patting Arthur's hand patronizingly. "Let's move on now, all right? He is never going to welcome magic, and he never will. This isn't new to me. I can handle this."

Merlin's nonchalance jars Arthur more than anything else. He casually adjusts until he's on his side and they face each other directly. Arthur studies his face, searching for any sign of dishonesty, but he finds none. Merlin seems to understand what he's searching for – even if Arthur himself doesn't – and he tilts his head to kiss Arthur's knuckles, a smile playing at his lips.

"I don't understand how you can be so calm about this," Arthur wonders. "It's your life at risk."

He tightens his fingers around Merlin's, feeling both protective and fearful. The calm in Merlin's eyes is confusing, and the careless shrug that accompanies it compounds his bewilderment.

"Look, this is the first time you've acknowledged the sensibility of the fear people feel towards your father, and you acknowledge that he's doing more harm than good. Am I right?" Silence. Merlin merely nods sagely. "Things will change," Merlin insists with a certainty that escapes Arthur's understanding. "Not now, I know, so don't make that face. Not with Uther on the throne, but you, Arthur. You'll bring great changes to Camelot when you are king."

"Because of this destiny of mine that you tell me about?"

Arthur's tone is more bitter than necessary and he pulls slightly away, irritated. He hates the idea that his fate has already been determined and divined. Especially when that foretelling is from the wisdom of a dragon. No matter how much he trusts Merlin, he has very little faith in the virtues of dragons.

"No," Merlin says, pulling Arthur flush against him once more, wrapping an arm around Arthur's waist. "It's because you're you, and I have faith in who you are. Not the vague promises of some old, deceptive lizard. His words mean nothing to me. But you, Arthur, you are hope."

With a sigh, Arthur drops his head to lean on Merlin's chest, and he listens to the steady heartbeat there, lets it soothe him. He wants to share Merlin's faith. He wants to believe that present circumstances are endurable, that everything will be fine for now, that everything will be better when his time to rule comes. He wants to believe things will fare well until then, but he has less faith in his father's humanity than Merlin does in their future.

Uther's paranoia worsens. Arthur has never been less inclined to gloat about this, about being right to worry over Merlin's safety. An illness similar to Uther's recent affliction spreads through the city, and Uther insists that if a household contains sick and healthy people, the healthy ones must be protecting themselves with magical means. Survivors of the sickness are considered to be dangerous, supposedly having been healed only with the aid of magical artefacts.

"This is worse than the Great Purge," Arthur tells Merlin one afternoon. "God, Merlin, you're determined to prove yourself useless, aren't you?"

The words distract Merlin momentarily and, additionally hindered by already being sweaty and exhausted, he fails to lift either the sword or the shield in a proper response. Arthur groans, annoyed, and lowers his sword for a short moment of repose while he glares.

"Merlin, I can't practice reasonably if you won't even attempt to defend yourself."

Arthur only swings his sword at him a few more times, and it's more playful than it is concerted effort on his part, but Merlin still does not last long before landing on his back in the dirt.

"I don't understand why you want me out here when one of the knights would be better suited," Merlin mumbles. "You know I'm no good at this."

"The knights are busy," Arthur says, trying to keep his tone even and unrevealing. Merlin probably sees through him anyway, but it's worth a shot. "They're doing my father's bidding. After all, that is their job. Just as your job is to do what I say. Even if it's to hold a shield while I attack you."

Accepting Arthur's proffered hand, Merlin uses it to pull himself back up. A wary look graces Merlin's face. Arthur rolls his eyes, and then begrudgingly releases Merlin's arm.

"Yes, we're done," Arthur concedes, nodding briefly.

Merlin grins broadly, obviously pleased at the turn in events. Arthur walks towards the armoury, thoughts firmly on his father and the knights. At Uther's request, his knights have abandoned many of their normal duties to invade homes of the ill – as well as healthy ones, as Uther is nothing but thorough in his desire to eradicate magic.

"So why aren't you with the knights?"

Merlin averts his eyes as he asks the question, though when they reach the armoury, he still helps Arthur with his armour. The stilted timbre of his voice is obvious, but Arthur doesn't mention it. It's not abnormal these days, and he tries to ignore it. As Uther's actions become more devastating, Merlin speaks to Arthur less and less freely of magic. He won't admit it, but it makes his heart ache to be cut off from Merlin to any degree.

"It seems that he doesn't want the prince exposing himself to rampant magic or illness," Arthur says, his tone biting, as if each word has committed a great offense against him. "I'm going to speak with him about the matter today."

That catches Merlin's attention. He jerks his head to face Arthur, his eyes wide. Concern is evident, yet it mixes with something that Arthur thinks might be hope or pride. Not that any of Arthur's actions or inactions thus far make him particularly deserving of Merlin's faith, but the light in his eyes makes Arthur want to earn that faith in full. He turns away again, hiding his face as he watches Merlin's hands deftly remove his armour.

"Determined to expose yourself to the evils of magic, are you?"

"I'm just determined that something needs to change, and he can't leave me out of this. As I said, I think this is worse than the Great Purge." Merlin just shakes his head in disbelief, and Arthur grits his teeth. "Fine, perhaps it isn't yet. But it very well could be."

When Arthur finally faces him again, Merlin grimaces. He falters for a moment, but then seems to steady himself. He takes a step closer and grips Arthur's wrist tightly in his fingers.

"Words won't be enough to bring change, Arthur," Merlin's voice is quiet but harsh. He lets go of Arthur's wrist to entwine their fingers in a hold just as firm as the last. "I'm glad you're willing to try, but you're putting yourself at risk, in front of Uther's rage, for nothing."

"I can't stand idly by while he does this!"

Arthur doesn't intend to shout, but everything feels helpless, and the words come out angrier than he means. He has to do something, anything he can, and this is all that is within his power. He pulls his arms out of Merlin's hold to frame that worried face with his hands.

"I have to try. For you. For everyone."

Merlin doesn't try to argue with him anymore. Instead he pulls them close enough to lay his head on Arthur's chest, nose pressed to collarbone, and wraps arms around him, rubbing slow, soothing circles in his back. He opts not to say anything more, which is both a relief and a disappointment to Arthur. If even Merlin doesn't believe he stands a chance, what real hope does he have to cling to?

"I have to try," he repeats, mumbling into Merlin's shoulder, though he's beginning to doubt himself as well.

Minutes pass before he retreats out of Merlin's embrace, nearly as quickly as he had dropped his defences. He recollects himself and his composure before he looks Merlin in the eye, determination setting in.

"I'm confronting him outright," Arthur announces. "Right now. I can't put this off any longer."

Merlin leaves a small, feather-light kiss on the corner of Arthur's mouth and squeezes his hand for a brief moment. The gratitude and support of the gesture give him strength.

"You can't keep doing this. You are only causing additional, unnecessary pain and suffering when you invade the homes of the ill."

It is probably not the best way to greet your father-king, but that's all Arthur can think to say when he steps inside Uther's chambers early that afternoon.

"You can't be serious about this, Father. The people suffer enough with this disease. Why must you burden them with even more?"

Uther doesn't even look slightly perturbed. He continues writing at his desk, never even looking up. At first, he doesn't he even acknowledge the addition of another person in the room. He looks up only when the knight by his side mutters a garbled, uncomfortable farewell, leaving father and son alone.

"No excuses can be allowed for sorcery," he finally declares. "Only more evil deeds could come from that."

Arthur gapes at Uther. However unlikely it may be, Arthur hopes for the possibility of a teasing smile, some other implication of a jest, or even the slightest awareness of the absurdity of his suggestion. No such luck. Arthur grits his teeth, rolls his shoulders, and braces himself, physically preparing for what could become a verbal battleground. He plans to avoid even nonliteral battlegrounds, but there's no sense in being unprepared.

"Don't you see, Father?" Arthur asks, trying to keep his tone neutral rather than panicky. "You're not protecting them if you assume the worst. How can you protect them when you're condemning them to death for surviving illness? You survived without the aid of magic."

"You lack proper understanding of our predicament."

"No, I don't. I know this is too personal for you. I know you want to make up for the past. I know enough. You can't change the past. You ought to tell the guard to return to their regular duties."

Arthur knows that he treads on dangerous grounds, and that pushing further would risk waking his father's rage. Worrying over the fate of sorcerers is tantamount to betrayal in Uther's eyes, but he can't contain himself. He's certain that his father must still feel some degree of sympathy for his people, and Arthur intends to use that as a means of persuasion. Uther couldn't possibly be so blind.

Arthur only receives a raised eyebrow in response, as if he should know better, as if he ought to know Uther's methods and reasoning instinctively. It doesn't bode well; his heart seems to sink to the bottom of his stomach. The silence that presses around them is so heavy and uncomfortable that it surpasses even the awkward silences that ensued in the days after the revelation of Merlin's magic.

Uther does not voice a response for what feels like an age. He strides to a window, and from there he looks back at his son with a frown and that still-raised eyebrow. It's the only invitation he'll give, but Arthur knows better. His father's requests have never been optional, never anything less than a demand. Arthur follows suit with hesitance; the determination on his father's face is one that Arthur is not pleased to see. It's more disconcerting than usual, and he wants to flee without a backwards glance. Instead, he approaches Uther slowly, mustering any bit of confidence he can. Each step is hesitant, but when he stands near his father again, Arthur meets Uther's glare with his own steady stare.

Finally, he looks away, out the window at the courtyard. It's nearly empty as Arthur looks down on it. While quiet would not be rare later in the day, it's too early to be empty but for the few people dashing across, unwilling to linger for gossip or laughs. It's an eerie shadow of what it would be in happier, simpler times.

"I know you have your misgivings," Uther says slowly, as if taking care to select the right antidote to a poison rather than words to speak with his son. His expression is stern and unyielding. "But it is important that we punish criminals. All of them. You know this. I must do all that I can to protect my people from themselves. They are my people. I will prevent harm from befalling Camelot at all costs."

The theory of Uther's beliefs as well as his security measures may seem somewhat reasonable, but the damage he causes is too great, the consequences too horrible, and Camelot always suffers. The truth is plain enough for anyone to see. Except Uther, that is. The vengeance that Uther seeks does not warrant the violence and death he doles out so freely.

"They're not criminals," Arthur insists, and feeling so repetitive he almost doesn't want to bother, but he has to try. "They're families dealing with sickness. How can you claim that to be sorcery? You're not protecting them when you burn down houses filled with people to purportedly avoid the spread of magic and illness!"

The lines on Uther's face grow more severe. Arthur wishes he could shut up, but the words keep spilling from his lips.

"This has gone on too long," Arthur snaps. Imperative as it might be for his father to remain unaware of his emotional investment – such a display would only be seen as weakness in Uther's eyes – risking his own well-being is better than risking the continuation of mindless killing. "The sick will recover if given the time and resources, yet your knights do the opposite. They kill entire families. If we want to keep our people safe, they need to know that they are safe in their homes, and then be kept safe there. If assistance is not given for the disease, then at the very least we must allow them to die peacefully rather than destroying the remaining shreds of their homes and families. Justice is necessary for those who have really done wrong, not the mindless slaughter of those who mean no ill will."

Uther takes a step closer to Arthur, then another. He keeps his arms at his sides, but his movements are stiff and his hands curl into tight fists, revealing his irritation.

"My knights," Uther says, though he grinds out the words between clenched teeth, pausing to retain control over his voice. "Are my knights alone, and not yours. Not yet. They do exactly as I instruct them to do. They seek criminals in the ways that I tell them, in my name. I trust them to fulfil their vows and to obey my commands. If you do not trust them, then you do not trust me. Is that what you are implying? Speak frankly, Arthur."

"How could you possibly think you are doing any good for your people?"

He's overstepped. He knows that he has gone too far, even before Uther says anything or reacts at all. He knows before the words even finish tumbling from his mouth, but he does nothing to stop them. Flashing eyes, tightening facial features, and a finger jabbing toward him are the only additional signs of the anger that Arthur knows lingers within Uther.

"You're blinded by your ignorance, Arthur."

"You're blinded by your hate and a misplaced desire for vengeance."

Uther withdraws sharply, pulling away from his son, his harsh gaze quickly re-evaluating the scenario with the eyes of a strategist rather than those of a father. He straightens his posture to a severe degree, and Arthur can almost see the anger retract until it is tucked away, coiled tightly within. Arthur matches the stance, now determined to not back down. Uther purses his lips before stepping towards Arthur again, but he maintains his ground despite wishing he could run away.

"Your insolence is unacceptable. I am both your father and your king, but do not forget that I am your king first and foremost. If you dare speak of this again in such a manner, or if you purposely get in my way, I will have you tossed in the dungeons until I purge every scrap of magic from Camelot."

Arthur stills, astonished and frozen to the spot. What little hope he had in his father vanished with the threats, and the uncaring words only make that loss sting all the more.

"I'm taking necessary precautions and I'm protecting my people from something more dangerous than you seem capable of understanding. You must learn to believe me, or you will destroy Camelot with your ignorance."

Arthur isn't given a chance to respond before Uther leaves. He shoves the heavy doors open, allowing them to slam against the stone walls with a hollow sound that resonates loudly in Arthur's head and mixes unpleasantly with the dread he feels. The sound still echoes in his mind as he trudges out the room.

When Arthur returns to his chambers later, Merlin is waiting for him. Of course. He always waits. Arthur exhales heavily, tension relieved at the sight of the lanky figure sitting at the edge of a chair near the table, staring blankly and consumed by his thoughts. His legs are drawn up to his chest and his head rests on his knees. He looks concerned, even broken, and initially unaware of Arthur's presence. But when the door shuts with a soft _snick_ sound, Merlin immediately stands and hides away his anguish. The corners of his mouth turn up in the ghost of a smile and his eyes light up for a brief moment, but both slip away at Arthur's solemn appearance. Arthur shakes his head, and Merlin's face falls even further.

"He refuses to listen to me about it," Arthur admits, his voice low, as if keeping quiet will make the truth of his statement less harsh.

He looks down to study his hands, preferring to examine the callouses there rather than see the look on Merlin's face. It might be one of worry, disappointment, or anger, but whatever it is, he doesn't want to know which it will be this time. He has no desire to see his failure written in the despair on Merlin's face like an ugly scar. He doesn't want to cause emotional scars on a soul like Merlin's.

"This cannot continue, Arthur," Merlin insists, matching Arthur's quiet tone.

Arthur glances up, but only to make it evident that he is rolling his eyes. He still avoids Merlin's gaze, continuing the casual study of his hands once again.

"You told me I wouldn't be able to change anything. I admit it, you were right. I can't help you or anyone."

Merlin steps close and attempts to plant himself in Arthur's line of sight. When they are within arm's reach of one another, and with considerable effort, Arthur forces himself to look up into Merlin's open, honest face. The concern etched there makes Arthur want to wrap his arms around Merlin, to protect him from everything that causes worry or harm. He lingers on the edge of temptation, yet he resists, maintaining his aloofness with physical isolation.

"I wish I could do more, Merlin," Arthur says, crossing his arms to prevent them from wrapping around Merlin of their own accord, but it's a poor substitute for the sensation of Merlin in his arms. "He's too stubborn, too vengeful. I can't change that. It's hopeless."

"If you're willing to do something about it, action can accomplish goals where words fail. We can't stand by and do nothing while he destroys lives," Merlin says, his words puzzling.

His eyes flash gold, but Arthur sees no physical display of magic; Merlin's anger manifests as a burst of otherworldly colour, a flare of power in his eyes shouldn't send a shiver down Arthur's spine, but it does. He tries to ignore that as Merlin continues speaking. Merlin either doesn't notice, or judiciously ignores it.

"In truth, we've done very little. You've tried to talk sense into Uther, but words will never be enough. There must be something we can do. Unless if you don't care to help beyond what words can achieve. "

Merlin looks even more desolate than he had a moment before. The thought of causing that hurt makes Arthur cringe.

"I do," Arthur assures him hastily, eager to erase that look from Merlin's face. "I do want to help, but he's never going to change his mind. I've spoken with him many times. You know that. But he doesn't budge. Nothing I say or do will make a difference."

He slumps gracelessly onto a chair and cradles his head in his hands, burying his face in his hands. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wonders if this helplessness is anything like what Merlin felt earlier, when Arthur first walked in the room.

"He's not just the king, Merlin. He's my father," Arthur continued, his voice slightly muffled by his hands. "I don't want to go against him. I want him to do the right thing, but I know he won't ever change his mind. More than anything, though, I don't want to see you hurt by this. I fear that he'll discover you. Either your magic or your semi-permanent residence in my bed. We tempt fate every day."

Silence permeates the room for so long that Arthur wonders if Merlin abandoned him to his thoughts and solitude. Still, he does not look up. A pair of knees hit the ground, directly in his limited field of vision, and, relieved by Merlin's presence, he relaxes minutely. Merlin hasn't left. Not yet. Hands pull at his own until the sight of fingers is replaced by that of Merlin kneeling before him.

"He won't. He's much more of an idiot than you are, and, as I remind you frequently, it took you ages to find out," Merlin quirks a small but cheeky grin at him, then grows sombre once more. "You have to decide, Arthur. Are you going to let him continue the way he has hurt others for so long, or will you defend your people against him? There is no middle ground here."

Arthur sighs and doesn't answer for some time. He twists his hands until he grips Merlin's in his own. The sight of Merlin's fingers tangled with his own never fails to amaze him. The rough bits of Merlin's hands scratch at the surface of Arthur's, yet it is still a solid reassurance of everything they are. Both of them work hard for everything in their lives, in ways that are similar and other ways that make them very different from one another. They have callouses and scars enough to prove their effort, while other things mark them and shape them in non-physical ways.

He imagines what his life would be like if Uther were to execute Merlin, and the prospect makes him grip Merlin's hands tighter. That could never come to pass. He thinks of the people who already know such pain, and wishes he could take that pain away from them and prevent more from happening to anyone else. Especially Merlin.

"Whatever it takes," Arthur whispers. "I'll do it."

He pulls Merlin's hands to his face and kisses the knuckles. Everything is another reminder of what he cannot afford to lose. The trust between them is something Arthur never wants to lose again. Not after they so carefully rebuilt it. The thought of actively betraying Uther's wishes leaves a bitter taste in Arthur's mouth and a dull ache in his heart, but it isn't something that would haunt him forever. The thought of hurting Merlin in any way, however, is so sickening that Arthur would rather die than let Merlin down and be the recipient of that disappointed, angry gaze directed at him. He can live with disappointing his father, but he could never intentionally let Merlin down.

Something shifts in Merlin's countenance. Amusement mingles with a question on his lips, and Arthur wants to kiss him into submitting his secrets. He resists giving in to curiosity out of habit – at times, despite how long it's been allowed, he can't believe it is, and it makes his heart thud all the more. Instead he does his best to mimic the expression while he waits for Merlin to speak his mind.

"You're doing it again," Merlin says with that curious half-smile still firmly in place.

"Am I now?" Arthur ducks his head down to place a light kiss beneath Merlin's jaw, if only to avoid that piercing gaze.

"Not that," Merlin says. He swats at Arthur and rocks back on his heels to create distance between them until only their hands are entwined, but he's still smiling. "Your eyes are burning a hole through my head the way they do when you get indignant about something. Especially when magic's involved, and definitely when it's my magic that's up for discussion."

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Merlin stops him by yanking a hand free and placing fingers over Arthur's lips before he can utter a sound.

"You do," Merlin insists, gentling his hold on Arthur's mouth when there's no resistance. "But you do nothing with that fire. Righteous indignation is a start, Arthur, but where will you let that fire lead you?"

"To you, Merlin," Arthur says. "You're always on the other side of my indignation."

He pulls Merlin up towards him. He only stops when Merlin is straddling his lap, with a leg on either side of him. They're so close that they breathe each other's exhalations rather than the air around them.

"You're absurd and predictable, Arthur," Merlin whispers into Arthur's mouth, a smile on his lips that is felt more than seen, and Arthur can't resist pulling him closer until the smile disappears into his own and their chests brush.

"I like to think of it as being dependable," Arthur says before bringing his mouth to Merlin's in another light brush of lips. "If I have any need for clumsiness and unpredictability, I have you for that."

"Admit it," Merlin abruptly stands as he speaks, cold air filling the sudden space between them. "You need me to get anything done."

"I think I could argue that you're not exactly helping me right now, Merlin."

His complaint is accompanied by an exaggerated pout. Merlin only laughs at him for it, and pulls a semi-compliant Arthur out of the chair, yet simultaneously pushing away at Arthur's every attempt to draw close. Merlin's only concession is their linked hands.

"Have patience, _sire,_ " Merlin tugs Arthur across the room. He follows obediently, willingly. "Trust me. You know I have your best interests in mind."

The cheeky, teasing tone of his words conflicts with the solemn look on his face, and Arthur knows they're discussing more than just Arthur's eagerness to touch every inch of Merlin.

"I know," Arthur says.

He's just as solemn as Merlin, nodding to emphasize his point without vocalizing just how much trust he places in Merlin. They've established that again and again, but this time the discussion feels more serious than typical. The smile returns to Merlin's face. The mischievous curve of his mouth – not to mention the golden glint in his eyes – ought to be enough for Arthur to predict what comes next. He doesn't, though, and the next thing he knows is that he's being shoved until he's sprawled on his back, bed underneath and Merlin above him.

"Was that..." Arthur hesitates for a moment. "You didn't merely push me, did you?"

"Say it, Arthur," Merlin insists, the request a soft whisper of air over Arthur's neck that prickles delightfully at his skin. "You can't possibly be suddenly afraid of the word now."

"You're using magic to get in bed with me." Arthur lifts his chin in mock defiance that he knows Merlin sees straight through.

"I don't need magic to do that," Merlin insists with a devious smile and a glint in his eyes that has nothing to do with magic yet still makes Arthur's skin tingle. "I just know that you like it when I do."

Merlin's hands glide over him with a nimble familiarity, though his clothing proves too obstructive and obnoxious for Arthur's tastes. The touch is too light, but every time Arthur tries to lean into it, Merlin draws away entirely. Arthur resigns himself to his fate, dropping dramatically back against the pillows.

"You're a deviant," Arthur whines as he drags his fingers through Merlin's hair idly, allowing Merlin to bide his time for now. "I was wrong. You're mad, and you don't attend me as a proper servant ought. I should get rid of you."

"Of course I'm a deviant," Merlin admits, though he finally, albeit slowly, removes Arthur's tunic and undershirt, adjusting Arthur's limbs more roughly in the process than strictly necessary. Arthur thanks him for his compliance by leaning forward to lick and nip lightly up Merlin's neck. "I'm a servant who spends his free time – and, I confess, a fair few of his working hours, if this moment is any indication – ravishing the prince in his bed or plotting with him to save the kingdom from his father."

"You are, without a doubt," Arthur pauses to bite Merlin's earlobe, harder than he means to, eliciting a beautiful gasp from Merlin's lips as fingertips press into Arthur's sides. "The worst servant I've ever had in my bed." He bites again, this time a playful nip just below the ear, and he is rewarded with a quiet moan that Merlin muffles in Arthur's hair. "And if you continue this habit of mentioning my father when my lips are on your skin, I will assume you'd rather be in his bed than mine."

Arthur slides his hands under Merlin's tunic, moving slowly and gently until he reaches his intended destination. Merlin inhales sharply at the harsh contact with his nipples. When Arthur tweaks one and then the other, toying with each in turn, Merlin shivers and writhes above him, and braces himself on his forearms, one on either side of Arthur's head.

"Is your incoherence my doing, or are you squirming at the mere mention of my father?"

Arthur knows he's being unfair, but he grins cheekily when Merlin glares at him. He takes the moment of distraction to pull the hindering clothing over Merlin's head.

"Shut up, Arthur," Merlin hisses, and while Arthur misses the look on his face, he can imagine the look easily enough.

"What insolence, Merlin. I'll have you put in the stocks if you continue mouthing off –"

His remark is cut off abruptly and erased from his thoughts entirely when Merlin kisses him hard. He nearly bites at Arthur's lips, surges forward, effectively shutting Arthur up with each swipe of his tongue against Arthur's own. He grips Merlin's sides tightly, tries to flip them over, but Merlin stops him with a hand on his chest. A soft whine of protest escapes from Arthur without meaning it to happen, but Merlin is relentless nonetheless.

"Merlin." Even just speaking his name, Arthur's voice is filled with warning.

"I thought you wanted your servant to attend you dutifully," Merlin flutters his eyelashes in an exaggerated feigning of innocence that makes Arthur scoff.

Fingers find their way into the laces of Arthur's trousers, and he has to fight to keep the scowl on his face. Hands too close to miss it, Merlin must notice the traitorous hardening beneath the fabric, accelerated by the almost-contact. It undermines Arthur's severe expression, and Merlin – who quirks an eyebrow and a devilish smile at Arthur – certainly notices.

"You're not very good at disguising your arousal. You can't hide the fact that such an idea pleases you. I've been serving you, and I will continue to serve you as long as you'll let me. You'll do great things, Arthur, and I will help you if you allow it."

The sudden return of solemnity in Merlin's appearance startles Arthur into stillness. He reaches up, brushes a thumb gently across Merlin's mouth before cupping his cheek.

"You know I don't actually believe I'm better than you, Merlin. Right? You don't have to serve me. You're better than that. You're better than me. I want you by my side, and nowhere else. I don't want –"

Merlin cuts him off with a kiss, fleeting but firm enough to silence him. Arthur doesn't mind the interruption, but it leaves him immediately wanting more.

"Yes," Merlin murmurs into the corner of Arthur's mouth. "Yes, I know. But you need my help with your trousers as much as you need my help with Camelot, and I want to be all of that for you. You'll save us all, Arthur, and I want to be there to help you do that. I am nothing but yours."

Vibrant blues eye peer at Arthur, too close for him to focus properly on them, but they're intense nonetheless. The sharp gaze pierces him and bares his soul for examination, and Merlin must know how vulnerable he makes Arthur feel. The earnestness on Merlin's face is too much to handle, especially when coupled with such an ardent proclamation. Merlin is too much in too many different ways; too loyal, too honest, too powerful... It is overwhelming, even after all the time they've spent together in their lives as well as in this bed. Instead of breaching the topic, he slings an arm around Merlin's neck and presses their lips together briefly, hoping it's enough to make his feelings clear.

"Can we deal with the issue of my laces before we take the kingdom?"

To Arthur's relief, Merlin's sombre countenance quickly melts away in favour of a pleased one.

"As you please, sire."

His laces are tugged at again – although attacked might be a more apt way to describe it. Finally, Merlin's hands – cold, calloused, glorious hands – provide much-needed relief. His fingers are firm and his pace is brisk, capturing all of Arthur's attention in minutes. Instinctively, Arthur twists his hands into Merlin's hair and arches his body towards Merlin. Each time Merlin changes rhythm or switches from long smooth movements to roughly brush over the head or tease circles around it, an embarrassing whimper is emitted from Arthur's throat. When he lets go, Arthur groans, unhappy, and removes a hand from Merlin's hair to grab at the wrist that had dared to leave him. Arthur glares daggers at Merlin, daring him to pull away, but Merlin merely grins as he pries Arthur's fingers off his wrist one by one.

"I told you," Merlin mumbles, and Arthur glimpses eyes darkened with lust before Merlin bends his head to kiss Arthur's collarbone. "I've got you, all right?"

The words make Arthur's flesh tingle as much as Merlin's tongue does as it draws wet patterns on Arthur's chest. He nods dumbly, heart skipping a beat at the sincerity on Merlin's face. He reaches out next to the bed and procures the bottle of oil from its usual spot and shoves it unceremoniously into Merlin's hand.

"In that case, get on with it," he instructs Merlin, who takes the command to heart.

The oil glistens where Merlin smears it on his own stomach, glimmering in the fading sunlight and the bright light of the fire. The sight of it mesmerizes Arthur, and he can't look away until he feels the tip of a finger brush against his hole, touching him so lightly that it's teasing, tantalizing, and too much. He can only look up at the ceiling as he tightens, yearning with his whole body, as Merlin tortures him slowly.

Arthur snaps his jaw shut, ready to remind Merlin, to do something, to just get on with it. He resists that urge, resists relinquishing that control to Merlin. Finally, _finally_ , Merlin presses a finger inside. Soon, it's followed by another, slow only until Arthur has a chance to relax around them slightly. Merlin drives in and out, twisting deftly, with a combination of altering rough, quick, smooth, and slow that has been perfected with practice.

"You don't ever tire of this, do you?" Merlin looks down at him fondly, the softness there conflicting with an especially breath-stealing thrust of his hand.

It takes more effort than he'd care to admit, but Arthur rolls his eyes with all the nonchalance he can muster.

"You know the answer to that."

His hands glide over Merlin's back until he reaches the base of his spine. Grabbing at Merlin, Arthur shoves and tugs roughly at the trousers until they're at Merlin's knees. Arthur pulls at him, urging him closer. Merlin tenses at the touch, pressing closer and moving his hand faster.

"Come on, Merlin."

Despite the demand, Merlin does not respond immediately. Instead, he continues twisting and pumping his fingers.

"You're not ready, and that wouldn't be proper servitude." There's a brief moment of silence as Merlin withdraws his hand that leaves Arthur holding on more tightly. "You want a proper servant, don't you?"

" _Mer_ lin. This isn't the time."

There's that smirk again. That alone could drive Arthur crazy, and he's glad when further begging proves unnecessary. His fragile mental state only unravels further when Merlin withdraws his hand and pulls away. He rocks his hips upwards in an attempt to follow, but to no avail.

"No," Arthur whines. "Fine, do it your way, just come back here."

The low chuckle from Merlin makes Arthur desperate and he can't even pretend to be ashamed as he clutches Merlin's arm. He whines when Merlin yanks his arm away, but it does no good, and Merlin moves further away. Arthur only finds hope when Merlin divests himself of his remaining clothing. Merlin climbs back over Arthur, positioning himself between Arthur's legs, pressing a palm, warm and possessive, against either of Arthur's thighs to create a space for himself.

"You complain too much," Merlin chides him with a patronizing pat to Arthur's cheek.

"And you're a controlling bully," Arthur counters, smacking Merlin's hand away from his face, but willingly folding his legs to give Merlin as much room as possible.

Merlin doesn't respond, opting for a physical response rather than verbal. When a hand rests on Arthur's shoulder and Merlin aligns their bodies, he decides he doesn't mind much. When Merlin presses only gently inside Arthur, he doesn't care about anything else at all. They're still for a moment, but there isn't enough contact to make Arthur content, and he grunts.

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur demands, anxious and needy.

He slides his hands around Merlin's hips and casually trails along the inside of his thighs to encourage him into action. Merlin's eyes twinkle. One smooth but achingly slow movement is all it takes to fill Arthur, stretching and burning, but not unpleasantly so. There's another pause. Again, it's too long, and Arthur grows eager, frantic. Left to fend for himself as Merlin gazes patiently, Arthur wraps his arms tightly around Merlin's waist, arching his body until they're flush against one another.

"No time for sentiment," Arthur insists, rocking impatiently against Merlin.

Merlin breaks from his daze with a start, and pulls nearly entirely out of Arthur. This time he only waits long enough to rest his free hand on the bed next to Arthur's face before sliding back in so suddenly that Arthur gasps sharply. Mistakenly worrying, Merlin pauses to inspect Arthur's face for signs of pain. Arthur's only response is to turn his face to kiss the inside of Merlin's wrist and press back up against him. Merlin quickly catches on and it takes a few short moments before they work out a rhythm, each thrust faster than the last.

Arthur pulls an arm away from Merlin to wrap fingers around his own cock, but Merlin pushes his hand away, taking control there as well. Arthur gathers his senses long enough that he flicks Merlin in the ear, but the simultaneous sensation of Merlin around his cock and while filling him serves as a worthy distraction. His only response is to sink his hands into Merlin's hair and rock senselessly against him while his legs ache with the strain. Somewhere between them, there's a shift in angles and Arthur moans instinctively, shamelessly.

"You won't be going quietly or slowly today, will you?" Merlin smirks, pausing for breath between most words.

Merlin tries to continue his casual charade, but he's breathing hard and his rhythm becomes more erratic. What's most revealing, though, is in the filthy groans and odd grunts as he strains himself. He changes his angle again before thrusting once, twice more; it's too much, too perfect, and Arthur can't contain himself. He lives up to Merlin's prediction, releasing a loud and guttural noise as he closes his eyes and spills in Merlin's hand. Eyes still shut, he feels Merlin fill him before collapsing gracelessly on top of him. The only thing that makes him open his eyes is a wet, sticky hand on his face.

"You're disgusting," Arthur mutters half-heartedly, but doesn't make any effort to rid himself of Merlin.

"You like that I'm disgusting," Merlin insists, sprawling comfortably over Arthur, and smiling against Arthur's chest. He leaves a gentle kiss there before snuggling closer, their bodies entwining in a messy tangle of limbs.

"You think you deserve to cuddle with me after smearing that on my face?"

"I'm always worthy of cuddling," Merlin insists, kissing him again, this time more languid than the last.

Merlin's favourite way to win arguments is to smother Arthur with enough kisses that the discussion is forgotten. Arthur doesn't normally mind, but as Merlin draws himself up so their faces are next to each other, an edge of worry creeps back into his thoughts, chasing the bliss away. He shifts slightly away from Merlin, but Merlin follows him.

"You'll fix everything," Merlin assures him. Of course he notices Arthur's change of mood. "We will."

"Of course," Arthur obliges, sliding an arm around Merlin's shoulders.

He's far from certain, but for Merlin's sake, he's willing to take his chances and try anything necessary.

"What do you think I should do?"

There's no immediate response from Merlin. Instead, he pulls Arthur tight against him, kisses the back of his neck. Hot breath against his skin makes Arthur want to turn around to kiss him, but Merlin's arms restrict movement. He waits patiently, partially hoping for an answer and partially hoping that the suggestion will never come.

It's been on the edge of their conversations for months – since their first discussions of Merlin's magic. But they never address the matter directly, and he fears what will happen when they do discuss it. Most recently, in the days that followed Arthur's last explosive confrontation with Uther, they've taken to completely ignoring the matter, opting to spend hours in bed rather than discuss what should happen next. Silence wraps around them like a too-warm, suffocating blanket, lasting so long that he wonders if Merlin even heard his question, or if he broke an unspoken rule by mentioning it.

"Merlin?"

A heavy sigh. Merlin loosens his grip to lie on his back, hardly touching Arthur at all, leaving more unwelcome empty air between them. Arthur doesn't turn to look at him, can't look at him, for fear of what comes next. Merlin is constantly concerned about what their next course of action, and Arthur worries about whatever he has planned. They're on the precipice of dangerous ground, and Arthur fears how he'll react to the ground if he must face the steepness of the cliff.

"If you truly want change, your father can't remain on the throne."

"What would you have me do? Remove him by force?" He's toeing the line. He shouldn't, but he edges closer to what they never say. It's inevitable, and he's tired of gingerly avoiding it.

Silence, breath, and the warm comfort of Merlin's body all seep into Arthur, but no answer comes until Arthur forces himself to repeat the comment, silently trying to force himself to acknowledge the unspoken answer to his question.

"All these discussions we've had recently," Merlin says slowly, carefully, obviously treading very cautiously, and it makes Arthur want to shake him. "You've known what it would lead to. And if not, your last conversation with your father must have made you realize. Do you really need me to say it?"

Arthur finally rolls over until he's on his other side, peering directly at Merlin's face for a moment. Idle fingers gently trace patterns in Arthur's forearm, and Merlin leans his forehead against a bony shoulder.

"Yes, I do," he admits quietly. "You always need me to mention your magic directly, and I need you to say this outright. I can't. Please."

The last word is added at the end, almost as an afterthought, but it helps soften his words, and is gentled further with a kiss to Merlin's shoulder.

"He can't stay on the throne. He will remain a tyrant for the rest of his days, especially to people like me. You have to be the one who does this. The one who removes him from the throne. There's no one else."

"Just say it," Arthur insists, shutting his eyes so forcefully it hurts. He feels one of Merlin's arms wrap around his back, tentative and slow. He revels in the touch, leans into Merlin, and takes comfort in the embrace.

"He has to die, Arthur. By your hands. The crown is not for anyone else to take, and nobody can take it for you. You understand the gravity of the situation. You have to stop him."

Arthur tenses. He breathes deeply, taking as long as he can before speaking.

"I couldn't possibly depose him so heartlessly," he admits.

Merlin gently lifts his chin with two fingers, forces Arthur to face him. Begrudgingly, he opens his eyes to meet Merlin's gaze. Sympathy and fondness pool there, but it isn't enough to calm him.

"You've been thinking of it for a long time, I think," Merlin insists quietly. "You're generous with the time you give him, but this kindness you give him does nothing. Additional time to cause damage does no good for your father. And it doesn't do any good for the suffering of Camelot. Of your people. It's time to act. No more waiting."

They lay there in silence for long minutes that feel like hours. He doesn't scramble for reasons not to take Merlin's advice. He doesn't object to the idea. He doesn't see many other options before him. He clings to Merlin, finding comfort and warmth where their bodies meet. Merlin abruptly stands, leaving very little opportunity for Arthur to respond. An involuntary whimper escapes his throat at the loss. He reaches out towards Merlin, but his fingers barely graze skin as Merlin leaves him.

"No. Please, come back."

The petulance in his voice is evident even in his own ears, and Merlin tilts his head slightly to smile knowingly back at Arthur. Still, he does not return to bed. Instead, he rummages through the tangled mess of their clothing. Arthur watches, attention focused not on Merlin's search, but rather on the pale skin of Merlin's body in all its glorious nakedness. He only recollects himself when Merlin approaches, a small glass vial in hand, its contents blocked from view by fingers that curl tightly around it. On instinct, Arthur extends a hand to take it from him, expectant.

"Is the some sort of strange oil? You're insatiable, you know, but hand it to me, and I'll–"

When Merlin recoils sharply, Arthur abruptly stops speaking, letting his words fall where they may. At Arthur's confused look, Merlin sighs and places the vial on the bed between them, though he keeps a hand over it.

"No, you really don't want this tincture on your skin," Merlin admits with a meaningful glance. "You might object to this, but..." he trails off, but soon shakes himself back into conversation. "Slip it into your father's drink at dinner. It's slow-acting. It will likely seem as if he's drunk too much wine. That will endure long enough for him to retire to bed without suspicion. By morning, though..."

Arthur blanches at the thought, but he still cannot tear his eyes away from the suspicious-looking liquid.

"Poison? Isn't that a cowardly course of action?"

He's only delaying the inevitable and killing time, but he can't help it. The method seems too simple, and lacking some other element that Arthur can't quite place. The wariness must be obvious on his face, because Merlin gives him a small smile and intertwines both his hands with Arthur's, holds them firmly.

"No, it's an intelligent means to an end. Why, would you rather hire someone to kill him? Would you prefer to stab him in his sleep, or challenge him to a duel?"

Arthur winces at the thought, and Merlin tightens his grip even further. Without letting go, he climbs back onto the bed. The vial bounces carelessly next to them. Arthur can't look away from it for long. Not even as Merlin straddles him until he's pressing his calves against Arthur's thighs. Their physical proximity is pleasant, and Arthur warms, his body interested, but he still spares barely a glance to where their bodies press together. Instead, he continues gazing at the glass beside them as it catches the light and glows in the abundance of bright afternoon sun and the lowly burning fire.

"You're a good man, Arthur." Merlin's voice is soft, but seems just shy of patronizing. Arthur continues to stare at the dark liquid within the vial. "You're too good a man to allow his rule to continue. You must do it. This method allows for a quick death. With a little luck, it would look like a relapse of his recent illness, or even mere drunkenness. He'll be gone before the rest of the castle wakes with the sun."

His hands shake, but Merlin holds him still. It's a comfort, yet restricting. He pulls his hands away. Sitting up properly inevitably pushes Merlin away from him. He grabs the poison, and Merlin doesn't try to stop him. It's his first opportunity to inspect the vial closely. The liquid is almost entirely opaque, though it moves like water, sloshing soundlessly against the sides of the vial. It is black until held up to the light. Still almost black, but dark purple against the light from the window.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice low.

"Nightshade," Merlin says. "In the last week, someone stole some things from Gaius, and I took a couple things when we went through everything that morning. This–" He gingerly takes the tincture out of Arthur's grip. "—is among the things Gaius listed as stolen. Whoever stole it will be a likelier culprit than anyone else, especially you."

Mouth slack, Arthur gapes at Merlin for several long moments. Merlin squirms under the gravity of Arthur's stare. He doesn't even make eye contact. The realization weighs heavily on Arthur, and he stares harder, more confused.

"Did you stage a theft of Gaius' stores just for this?"

Still refusing to glance in Arthur's direction, Merlin shrugs. He turns his face away entirely, listlessly looking out the window instead.

"It doesn't matter how I got it, Arthur. What matters is that we have it, and what can be done with it now. It must be done, and you must do it. You know this, don't you?"

Panic, it seems, was only momentarily delayed. Merlin's explanation only served as a temporary distraction. Now, Arthur begins to quiver again. He presses his face against Merlin's chest, despite the stick of sweat that lingers on his skin. Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur's shoulders. Sharp exhalations and sharper inhalations of breath come and go without Arthur's permission. He tries to let Merlin's calm seep into him.

He tries to focus on the soothing movement of Merlin's hands rubbing over his back in long, sweeping gestures. He does his best to match his breaths with that pattern. With each slow swipe down from the nape of neck to the base of his spine, he breathes out. A swooping movement circles around his entire back, and he breathes in. Again and again, he tries to even his breathing. It finally begins to works, albeit slowly.

"Do you feel up to giving this to him tonight at dinner?"

"No," Arthur insists without a hesitating for a beat.

"Would you rather do it another day?"

Merlin is gentle, but there's an undercurrent that hints at impatience, and that he's only trying to pacify Arthur. Or worse, it might even hint at something disappointment. It's the only thing that tips Arthur towards action.

"No," he repeats, this time weaker, and more petulant. "No."

At the repetition, Merlin withdraws to examine Arthur's countenance with a concerned expression on his own face. He ignores that concern.

"Tonight," Arthur says, determined. "It should be done tonight."

To his credit, Merlin doesn't smile at the thought. The reality of their plans doesn't bring relief or joy; an air of duty and necessity hovers in the air. Merlin is grave, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens. He strokes a thumb lightly over Arthur's cheek, and then kisses him, slow and lingering.

"Come on." Merlin stands, leaving Arthur cold and bereft once more. "We shouldn't ignore our duties any longer. And then there's dinner."

Arthur shoves aside the panic within him that flares at the thought of dinner. Favouring his typical routine with Merlin is much more appealing than falling victim to that panic.

"You always shirk your duties," Arthur reminds him, aiming to lighten the mood. "And as prince, I can do as I please. Also as prince, I can order you around if I wish, and I command you to return to bed."

Merlin is almost entirely dressed, though, and Arthur is only half-hearted in the attempt to lure him back to bed. Unmoving, he leans back and listens to Merlin scoff and shuffle around the room.

"You're taking too long, Arthur," Merlin chides. "I think you'll have to learn to dress yourself this time."

After a dramatic shake of his head, Arthur stretches his limbs lazily and remains still for a moment out of defiance, but then he stands as well.

"I don't need you to clothe me, Merlin."

To prove his point, he grabs his tunic and trousers, pulling so forcefully at the clothing that he hears a low, but distinct, ripping sound. Laughter comes from Merlin's general vicinity. Arthur studiously ignores the mockery until Merlin tugs carefully at the fabric, instantly stitching it back together; Merlin untwists his sleeves until they properly cover his arms.

"You're just as terrible at this as ever, I see. Someday, you might have to learn to put on clothes properly." Merlin lifts his eyebrows in inquiry. "But since you don't seem to need me anymore, I'm off to help Gaius. Maybe I'll stop working for you, if you find me so unnecessary."

Merlin spins to walk out the door, but Arthur catches him by the arm. The easy grin on his lips fails to disguise the worries etched in lines on Merlin's face. In favour of not panicking all over again, Arthur doesn't force another discussion of their dinner plotting. Instead, he kisses Merlin hard, tries to let his anxiety be swept away with Merlin's mouth.

"You can't get rid of me that easily." His smile is strained and his voice is tight. "And you know serving me is an honour."

"Of course, sire," Merlin placates him, patting his arm for a brief moment before pulling out of Arthur's hold on his arm. "Nothing gives me greater pleasure."

With one last quirk of a smile and a brief squeeze of hands, Merlin disappears from the room. He stares hard at the door for several long minutes that seem to stretch into hours or days. Finally, he moves, making himself presentable for public eyes. It's a little more difficult than he would admit, but Arthur does struggle some as he dresses himself. Not that he would ever admit that to Merlin.

Just before he leaves, Arthur notices the nightshade, abandoned on the bed. After only a brief moment of hesitation, he slips it into a small compartment near his bed. The only other things in it are Merlin's, and he rests it gently on a book. When he follows Merlin's example and leaves his chambers, locking the door along the way, his concern grows until he feels almost as disheartened as he did when Uther had left him alone days ago.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Interspersed through that blur are small smiles and encouraging words from Merlin whenever they see each other. None of those moments stay long in his thoughts and none can be recalled specifically, but the sentiment behind them is comforting nonetheless. They blend together in the background of his thoughts as a streak of red – red as that stupid scarf Merlin always wears – that momentarily pierces the mist of his poisonous black and purple haze.

He's late for the meal. He can't bring himself to go, and any place but the dining hall seems a more appealing place, so he lingers just outside the doors. Though tucked away in an alcove, nearly invisible to potential passers-by, Merlin still finds him.

"You're hiding."

Merlin raises his eyebrows slightly when he slides into the opening next Arthur, nudging him closer to the window. There's no feigned look of surprise, and Arthur sighs deeply.

"Catching my breath," Arthur mumbles, staring, determined, at the patterns formed by the stone on the wall in front of him.

When his arm is gently squeezed, Arthur anxiously looks out at the walkway, and Merlin lets go. They remain in silence for only a few moments, but brushing shoulders together in this quiet space is more comforting than anything else since he last saw Merlin, despite the earlier, calming kisses in isolated corners. The shared silence helps Arthur gather his thoughts and shape them into determination.

Before they leave their temporary safe haven, Merlin whispers last minute suggestions in his ear. There's no shaking hands or quivering, uneasy breathing. Just a quick, assenting nod in acknowledgement before he steps away and formulates a plan.

"Wait." Merlin hold him back with a hand on his shoulder. "You need to be more of a prat than you've been today. You've been really irritable lately, so just keep that doing that."

Arthur tilts his head as he looks at Merlin, confused and maybe slightly saddened that he hadn't even noticed his own behaviour.

"I have?"

"Yeah," Merlin sounds hesitant, like he's tiptoeing around Arthur. "Since your confrontation with your father a few days ago, I mean. It would just be... consistent."

Arthur nods again, numb. The words would have set him off just hours ago, but now they do nothing to him. Just before they enter the dining hall, Merlin presses the small vial into his hand. Somehow, he'd forgotten all about that.

"I can't believe I forgot it," Arthur huffs out a strangled laugh. "How'd you know where I put it?"

Merlin glances away from him, flush colouring his cheeks.

"It was where you keep all your secret things," Merlin shrugs, bitterness leaking into his voice. "Come on, let's go in."

Too busy pondering the sadness of Merlin's tone, he doesn't particularly watch where he walks, and he crashes right into Uther's attendant. He looks beside him, where Merlin had been at his elbow, to now find only empty space. Merlin slipped away somewhere else, somewhere out of Arthur's vision. He looks back at the young man before him. The name of the attendant escapes his memory, but he thinks it might be Simon or Peter or Judas. Whatever the name, Arthur decides to take advantage of the moment and improvise.

"What are you doing?" Arthur snaps, throwing his hands out to the sides, more intentionally dramatic than actually thrown off balance, before jabbing a finger at the servant. "Watch where you're going."

He stops jabbing in order to snap in Simon-Judas-Peter's face. The boy finally looks up at Arthur, and Arthur grabs the tray with his left hand for a moment, steadying it.

"Are you even listening to me? You seem to have a hard time looking at me."

For no more than a second or two, he lets his gaze fall on the tray to ensure that he does this right. With one hand still waving and poking in the servant's face, the other hand lets go of the tray. Carefully, he unstoppers the vial singlehandedly and tips it over the edge of the goblet, watching it from the corner of his eye.

"You're an idiot. A lucky idiot, since you didn't spill anything. And you're even clumsier than my own servant, which is hard to beat." He drops both hands, one stubbornly to his hip and the other hanging loosely at his side. "Go back to your duties, and don't trip anyone else."

Peter-Simon-Judas mumbles apologies and promises that Arthur doesn't bother listening to.

"Go on, then," Arthur demands, gesturing impatiently with one hand, eager to be done.

The servant finally leaves without needing to be shooed a third time. Arthur waits until the boy reaches Uther. Only then does he take his own seat. He looks about the room; nobody seems to have noticed his heated discussion. Apart from a stilted greeting from his father – complete with a reprimand for his tardiness – nobody pays him any mind for the moment. Except Merlin, who Arthur finally spots standing in the corner, looking on edge and expectant. Arthur nods briefly, knowing the message of his success is conveyed properly with that alone.

During the course of the meal, he studiously observes his father beside him. Uther scarcely touches his drink at first, which worries Arthur. Would the poison be enough to kill him if not consumed?

Very little keeps Arthur's attention for long. He continues watching his father, waiting for any sort of symptoms to develop. People try to speak with Arthur, but his responses are short, mechanical. Toward the end of the meal, Uther drops his cutlery to his plate, but misses entirely, and the knife falls to the ground. It goes unnoticed by all except Arthur, who tenses, waiting. He both hopes and dreads something more dramatic happening, but nothing else comes immediately. He tries to keep his eyes on his plate and his mind on the conversation surrounding him, but he can't help but wait for more than slight clumsiness from Uther.

When the king finally leaves the hall, he stumbles slightly. Presumably, he's lightheaded, but with drink or poison, it's impossible to tell. His clumsiness garners the attention of many near him, but he brushes off the assistance offered by his servant, and marches out. Arthur's capacity to endure mindless conversation filled, Arthur stands to leave shortly after Uther does.

"I have to go," he tells whoever it is sitting next to him. He can't remember or focus enough to pay attention. "Urgent letters to write."

He doesn't bid anyone a polite farewell, and he doesn't wait for a response before he leaves. He stumbles down the walkway for several paces before he leans a hand against a wall, finding comfort and sturdy support in the cold, hard stone. Then he continues, pausing frequently to steady himself against the wall. He slips into a daze happily provided by the abundance of wine that he had nervously gulped down, and he pays almost no attention to his surroundings. Even the wall doesn't comfort him for long. The lights seem lower than usual, the echo of his footsteps quieter. He doesn't notice two men talking loudly until he is almost upon them. Leaning against a wall that seems to slide away from him, he watches, unnoticed by them but disinterested, as their argument unfolds.

Actually poisoning his father wasn't hard – nobody paid attention to him as he harassed the servant, no suspicion arose, and Uther drank the infected wine without a second glance. In the aftermath, Arthur's head swarms with images of his father calmly sipping from his goblet, of his father dying, of his father not dying but suffering for days at Arthur's doing only to recover. A slow, painful death was never what he wanted. Arthur shudders. He never wanted to torture his father, and the thought horrifies him. Putting Uther through that would be unnecessary; not a mercy by any means. It draws an uncanny and unwelcome parallel between father and son. A chill spreads over Arthur, prickling his skin. Inwardly directed disgust threatens to overwhelm, and the only safe haven is in the fuzzy place made by too much wine.

The argument down the corridor grows louder. In his self-reflection, he had all but forgotten it. One of them shimmers in the lamplight. Arthur assumes he's either glowing with some magical effect or wearing armour that reflects light. The man who isn’t shining points and shouts, and the glowing man shoves at the plain man. It's all very odd and confusing, and Arthur resigns himself to a fate of never knowing. For once, he doesn't mind, and doesn't bother interfering.

Then the haze – formed by a combination of willing ignorance and a blissful drunkenness – in his mind numbs him. He hasn't felt so at rest in ages. The shimmering man stops pushing and gets in the other man's space, neither backing down. Eventually, the glowing one retreats down the hall, away from his companion and even farther from Arthur. The other man, however, goes the other direction. Arthur tries to pull himself out of his stupor, at least enough to potentially have a normal conversation with the man. Then the man approaching him turns into Merlin, and Arthur is doubly confused.

"Arthur?" Merlin seems confused, as well.

Something in his face must frighten Merlin, because he feels an arm wrap around his waist and heave him upwards. He hadn't even realized he'd sagged down to rest on the ground.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," Merlin urges when Arthur doesn't make any effort to walk on his own.

"What if it didn't work?"

Merlin tugs at Arthur, but he resists. He pulls away from Merlin. Still dizzy, he grabs at the wall, looking for anything to cling to. He stumbles, but Merlin grabs his elbow to steady him.

"It will work."

He's confident enough that Arthur wants to believe him. But he can't. Not when he saw how unaffected his father seemed.

"No," he whispers, yanking Merlin by the shoulder pulling him close until their faces are separated by only a breath. "No. He barely looked drunk. It won't do anything. Merlin, what if it doesn't do anything?"

Merlin scrunches his face, drawing away to stare contemplatively at Arthur. His wonder transforms into concern.

"You're right, we don't know." He grabs Arthur's other elbow, holding him firmly in place. "Do you... do you want me to check on him? To be certain?"

"No, I can do it."

Merlin holds a hand up to oppose the idea. It doesn't make sense. He poisoned Uther in the first place, of course he can finish it off. It shouldn't bother Merlin.

"No, you should rest," Merlin insists.

He pulls Arthur down the hall, an arm around Arthur's shoulders to support him as they walk. Arthur goes along, trying to break through the haze of his indifference to argue the matter with Merlin. It doesn't work as well as he wants, and only comes out as mumbled complaints. Merlin pulls him closer, and whether it's to provide comfort or physical support, Arthur neither knows nor cares.

Merlin carefully, slowly undresses Arthur in his chambers, and helps him into bed. A soft kiss, a brush of hands, and then Arthur's alone with his thoughts.

Arthur doesn't give sleep a chance to find him. Barely a few minutes pass after Merlin shuts the door before Arthur shoves out of bed, forcing himself into action. He can't stay, waiting while Merlin does his dirty work. The thought of Merlin bearing responsibility for the king's death, when it ought to be Arthur committing the deed, is abhorrent enough to spur him into movement.

"Coward," he scolds himself as he redresses.

He splashes stagnant water from a bowl onto his face before he leaves, shaking himself fully from his reverie. Luck favours him; the corridor is empty. Nobody is around to stop him, for which Arthur is grateful. He rushes through stairwells and hallways to his father's chambers. It's not until he's reaches his destination that he considers his lack of a key. Merlin, presumably, would also be incapable of entry. With a relieved sigh, Arthur leans against the door, winded by his mad dash and mental exhaustion, intending to wait there for Merlin to show up. The door, however, has other plans, and falls open easily under Arthur's weight. He stumbles, following the door unwillingly.

Merlin stands over the king, his dagger not yet bloodied. Arthur remains propped against the door, frozen to his spot despite his tumble. Uther sleeps soundly, though his breathing is shallow and his skin shines, damp with sweat. The blade catches moonlight from the window, it's slowly turned in circles. Merlin doesn’t look scared or even hesitant – just contemplative.

It's enthralling to watch Merlin in the moment, and Arthur loses all desire to stop him from doing Arthur's duty. Outside of his magic, Arthur's never considered Merlin to be a powerful or intimidating man. Brilliant, kind, outrageous, passionate, and so many other things, but it's _Merlin_ and Arthur would never think him to be frightening. Watching him now, though, makes the hair on the back of Arthur's neck rise.

Merlin twirls the blade between his fingers, biding his time. Arthur can't bring himself to announce his presence, but it surprises him that his stumbled entrance wasn't noticed. He takes the opportunity to examine the moment. It makes sense. Arthur began the process by poisoning Uther, and Merlin is about to end it by ensuring the king's death. The control over life is an overwhelming sensation of power, and he selfishly wants to share the moment with Merlin.

Steel enters flesh in one smooth, soundless motion. It's a graceful movement that Arthur admires despite the blood that spills out, forming a dark pool that trails away from Merlin's blade. Uther wakes instantly with a gasp, his eyes flying open, but Merlin covers his mouth with his left hand to quiet him. Arthur can't help but watch as his father helplessly fights against Merlin, who is relentless. He drives the blade into Uther's chest again, and dark red droplets spray again. Uther seems to glance Arthur's way, which is unsettling, but he convinces himself that it's his imagination. The king doesn't resist for long.

The moment stretches and extends as Uther's body spasms of its own accord even in death. Time only clicks back to normal speed when Uther completely stops moving – except under the pressure of Merlin repeatedly slicing through skin. Merlin, his face contorted with concentration and newfound rage, shows no sign of stopping, and Arthur steps behind him to calm him. He slides a hand slowly down Merlin's arm until he reaches the dagger, tries to pry it from Merlin's tight grip, but to no avail.

"He's gone," Arthur reassures him in a quiet whisper. "You killed him."

Merlin turns around to look at Arthur properly. Where concern had not graced his face in the slightest just moments earlier, he grows pale and apprehensive. He doesn't break eye contact with Arthur, but he shifts on his feet, uncomfortable. Arthur traces Merlin's jawline with a thumb, his other hand still clenching Merlin's around the dagger.

The air crackles as Merlin jerks away, his eyes flare with an anger that quickly replaces the fear. Merlin's eyes flash gold and magic folds around Arthur, pushing him away. Arthur startles, bewildered and speechless. Neither of them dares to break the too-intense eye contact.

"Don't console me," Merlin snarls. "Don't you understand what I've just done?"

Merlin steps towards Arthur, drawing close to him only to physically push him away again. He lets Merlin repeat this behaviour uninterrupted, until he stumbles into the wall behind him.

"Yes, I understand, and I—"

"He's _dead._ Your father is dead, and I wanted you to do it. I pressured you to kill your own father, and failing that, I murdered him myself. What kind of person am I?"

Merlin tugs at his hair, eyes wide with horror, and he backs even farther from Arthur. Pushing away from the relative safety of the stone wall, Arthur grabs Merlin's forearms tightly, but his voice is soft.

"No," he insists. "No, we decided that this needed to be done. Together. If anything, it shouldn't have been you, just now. It should have been me, if I wasn't so out of it."

Merlin snorts his derision, on the verge of disagreeing. Arthur shoots him a sharp look, but Merlin doesn't heed it in the slightest.

"He was a disgusting man, and I took his life," Merlin iterates.

"I know," Arthur murmurs. "And it was the right thing. Now, give me the dagger, and let's get out of here."

Merlin nods in mute agreement. Arthur successfully tugs the dagger from Merlin's hands this time. He tosses it thoughtlessly beside the bed, but is then struck by the odd sight before him. It's surreal to see his father lying there, blood still slowly trickling out. He picks up the blade again, momentarily entranced by the red that clings to it. No guilt or remorse washes over Arthur. He's only impressed with Merlin's display of power, and feels relief, though that fills him with guilt. Merlin, however, takes precedence over his conflicting emotions. When Arthur tries to leave the room with the dagger, taking Merlin by the elbow, Merlin panics, insists that it must remain in the room.

"Why? Whose blade is this?" Arthur asks. "Is it yours?"

"No." Merlin shakes his head vehemently. "It's not mine. It's... well, it's Mordred's."

"Mordred?" It's the first thing to anger Arthur about the implementation of their plot, which only adds to his guilt about his emotions. "What were you thinking? You know the dagger bears his mark. Mordred will be blamed for this. I'll be expected to execute him for this. Merlin, I know you don't like him, but this... this is too much."

Arthur can't muster up any anger for his father, even in death. Mordred, on the other hand, does not deserve this, and he needs to be defended.

"I took care of everything." Merlin tries to twist out of Arthur's grip, but he fails to escape. "Every hanging thread that threatened to unravel our plans, I took care of it. It will be fine, Arthur. For now, just know that I've ensured that Mordred will survive just fine. I'll explain later, but for now, we need to get out of here."

He tries to leave again, but Arthur stands his ground.

"No more lies," Arthur reminds him. "We decided there would be no more deceit, no more withholding of secrets. Tell me what you've done."

Merlin bites his lower lip, and averts his gaze. He's clearly uneasy about something, but Arthur doesn't ask again. He can be patient when he must be, even if he hates it the entire time.

"I will explain everything." Merlin concedes. "But we should really leave first, all right?"

Arthur stiffens, casts a glance about the room. He had nearly forgotten that they were casually discussing this at the scene of the king's murder. He nods once, firmly, and without knowing if he wants comfort or to provide it, he takes Merlin's hand in his own as they leave the room once and for all. Down two sets of stairs, they make their way through the next corridor before they hear footsteps approaching. Merlin bolts, finding some measure of security in the shadows of the next stairwell. Before Arthur can join him, however, he sees the source of the footsteps: Gaius.

"Sire?" Gaius' face contorts with confusion, eyebrows raised. Arthur doesn't understand what Merlin finds to be so intimidating about that expression.

Grabbing Merlin by the elbow, Arthur pulls him back into the walkway. He drapes his arm around Merlin's shoulders, forcing him down slightly with the weight of his arm. Merlin stumbles under the pressure, and Gaius looks at him curiously, his face twisting even more, now with disapproval.

"Gaius," Arthur greets shortly. "It seems Merlin has got into the wine again," He speaks slowly as he glares obviously at Merlin. "He's been wondering around the castle, and I've only just now found him." There it is; that high-raised, doubtful eyebrow. Finally, Arthur has an inkling as to why Merlin cowers before Gaius' judgment.

"I'll take him, if you wish." Gaius sounds perfectly agreeable, but Arthur wonders how much of his offer comes from compliance, confusion, or derision. For either of them.

"I wouldn't want his horrible drunken jokes to be forced upon anyone." He grabs Merlin's shoulder tight enough that it might hurt, and Arthur pinches him sharply.

"What? Ow!" His attempts to squirm out of reach but fails, as usual. "No, I want to go with Gaius. He won't make me sleep in the corner with your chamber pot."

"That was only once, Merlin," Arthur chides. "And I would never burden Gaius with you in this state. By any means, he probably is trying to do something important. Why are you up here anyway, Gaius? Do you want help with anything?"

"I appreciate the offer, but I just delivered a sleeping draught to a patient and redressing bandages for another. My only remaining destination is my own quarters."

"Continue on your way, then. I'll handle this drunkard."

Arthur ignores Merlin's glare and gestures towards to stairs that he and Merlin had come down just moments before, relief washing over him. Gaius wasn't going to visit the king. Arthur watches as Gaius descends the next flight of stairs, knowing that the physician has no reason to think about Uther until the following morning, when someone would be likely to send for him. When he looks away from the stairwell, Merlin is doing his best imitation of Gaius' judgmental eyebrow with the addition of a hand on a hip.

"Better a drunkard than a murderer," Arthur says by way of apology, instantly taken aback by his own nonchalance.

He covers up his frightening disregard by draping his arm loosely around Merlin's shoulders and guiding him along until they reach his chambers again. By that point, Merlin has reverted back to a wide-eyed, terrified look, completed by short, jerky movements he gives way to when he lets his guard down.

"Merlin."

Arthur speaks barely above a whisper, but Merlin, clearly startled, whips around, lifting a hand to his face protectively. He's shaking. Arthur doesn’t know when that started, but no amount of running hands up Merlin's arms soothes him. He doesn't mention the red on Merlin's hands. He leads Merlin to the bath. They stare at it despite its emptiness for far too long.

"Can you fill it?" Arthur asks. He knows it's possible, but considering Merlin's current state, it's hard to tell.

Merlin silently obeys the request, and the tub fills quickly of its own accord – or, rather, of Merlin's volition. Arthur helps Merlin in and scrubs the stains away while Merlin stares at the puff of pink that disperses in the water. Merlin jolts and renews his shaking every time Arthur moves too quickly, so he's both gentle and slow.

When Arthur's satisfied that Merlin is cleansed and at least somewhat calm, he takes Merlin by the hand and leads the way to bed. He reaches out for Merlin, to pull him close, but Merlin draws away, curling around himself at the edge of the mattress. With a sigh, he allows his hand to hover for a moment before resting it on the nape of Merlin's neck.

"We did what had to be done."

"But I killed your father. A terrible man, but I took him away from you."

Another sigh. Arthur pokes Merlin lightly with a finger, but to no avail. Merlin flinches, but otherwise doesn't respond.

"Merlin," Arthur pleads. "Merlin, look at me."

Merlin doesn't turn around. Arthur tugs at him, tries to force acknowledgement, but it doesn't work. Arthur leans back, head heavy against the pillow for a moment. He climbs out of bed, walking around it to crouch in front of Merlin. He grabs Merlin's face, harder than he means to, but it makes Merlin look him in the eye, so he counts it as a win.

"Listen to me." His voice is tight, commanding – his royal prat voice, as Merlin likes to call it. "You did what I couldn't. I didn't do it properly, and you helped me. You've nothing to feel guilty over. You completed a necessary task. You do that every day. Don't think of this as anything different."

"But it is different. What I did was–"

"What you did was necessary. Nothing else."

Clambering back on the bed, this time climbing over Merlin, Arthur turns him onto his back in the process. Merlin lets him, lying beneath him, mostly impassive. With hands on either side of Merlin's ribs, Arthur presses a kiss to Merlin's forehead.

"If anything, I'm grateful that you'd do this. That you do so much for me, when I've proven unworthy of your trust in the past."

"I would have done anything to hear that when you first discovered my magic." Merlin's tone is dismissive, but there's a light in his eyes that Arthur treats as a glimmer of hope.

"Well, I'm saying it now."

The corners of Merlin's mouth turn up slightly for the briefest of moments, but quickly drop back to a solemn, thin line. Arthur lights a finger along the edge of Merlin's lips.

"Believe me," he whispers, leaning close to Merlin's ear. "You've done something important. Things will only improve from this point onward. My father... my father was a necessary cost. You're the best thing in this world, and you only make it better."

Lips curve upward into a small smile once more. The smile only disappears when pressed against Arthur's mouth. They wrap their arms around each other's necks, foreheads pressed together. Arthur tips the balance of their weight until they're both lying on their sides, legs entwined together.

"It will be fine," Arthur assures him, his own concerns whisking away as sleep races towards him. "Nothing else to worry about."

In the morning, Arthur wakes to the sound of heavy thumping at his door. He groans into his arm, rolls onto his back.

"Go away, Merlin. Let me sleep."

The squirming next to him suggests that Merlin feels similarly unwilling to move. The thumping doesn't stop. After a moment of confusion where Arthur watches Merlin to determine that he isn't somehow making the sound, he finally realizes it must be someone else at the door. When the memory of the previous evening comes to mind, Arthur tumbles out of bed – directly onto the floor. Merlin pulls him to his feet.

"Thanks," Arthur mutters. "Now you need to hide before—"

Merlin doesn't wait for Arthur to finish speaking before shoving him back onto the bed and tossing a blanket over him.

"Lie back down," Merlin commands as he quickly dresses, running his hands over everything to smooth his appearance to the best of his ability. "I can handle this."

Despite the demand, Arthur pushes himself up into a sitting position on the bed. Merlin doesn't even cross the room to force him down himself, instead holding him down with a little magical assistance. Arthur struggles uselessly against it for a moment before giving in and letting Merlin deal with the early morning intruder. He tries to listen to Merlin speaking softly at the door, but the conversation is muffled, and the blankets act as a barrier against the sound as well.

"Come on, love," Merlin says as he pulls down the blanket. "I told Leon I've been trying to wake you. He wants to tell you himself, I'm sure. Doesn't seem to think you'll take it very well from your servant, I guess."

Arthur obliges with a silent nod. He allows Merlin to drag him about the room in a hastened version of their morning routine. In the hall, when they finally exit, Leon stands there, looking uncomfortable and tired, but determined.

"Arthur," Leon looks distraught. "It's your father... Someone's... someone's killed him, Arthur."

"He's dead?" Arthur covers his face with a hand, not sure how to react. He wishes he felt as dazed as he did the day before. Feigning horror at his father's death feels harder than he expected it would be. "I don't – I can't believe you. I want to see him."

"I don't think you want to do that," Leon says, his voice low.

"Where is he?" Arthur demands, all royal authority in tone.

Leon sighs, sad or exasperated or both, but he leads the way to Uther's chambers. It's strange to see his father's body in the light of day. In the limited light available the night before, the sight was surreal. Now, the stark comparison between pale skin and dark stains on bedclothes is startling. Soft, indistinct words are whispered in his ear. Arthur grabs the wrist belonging with the voice, expecting it to be Merlin, but instead it's Leon. Of course it isn't Merlin. In front of others, it would be never be Merlin. He pulls away from the touch, refusing to look Leon's way.

"Who– who would do this?" Arthur chokes out.

He approaches the bed slowly. The closer he gets, the more details stand out before him. First, he sees fingers clenched around blankets. With the next steps he takes, there is crusted blood on skin . One more long stride across the room, and droplets of red on the white nightshirt become obvious. His guilt resurges with each step and he becomes shakier. Leon follows him, tries to support him with a hand on his arm, but Arthur brushes him off.

Arthur drops to his knees beside the bed. He spreads his hands over the bedclothes, never touching his father's body, afraid of waking a ghost if he did. He searches for something, anything. Anything that might ensure, or ruin, the appearance of their innocence. His fingers wrap around the dagger. Its hilt isn't decorated as finely any weapon of Arthur's, but the blade is well-balanced and it's engraved with small symbols and is handsome enough to instil jealousy among many.

"That's – that has to belong to one of the knights. The same man makes all our blades, and he makes them nearly identical. I'll look into who this one belongs to," Leon whispers, his voice sympathetic, but to Arthur's guilty conscience, it sounds on the verge of accusation.

"No!" Arthur bursts out. At Leon's confused look, he expounds. "I mean, honestly Leon, if this was left here so carelessly, do you think it really belonged to the murderer?"

Behind Leon, Merlin frantically shakes head, with eyes wide and wild gestures to complete the look. Arthur looks away; he can't look at him when Merlin wants him to condemn Mordred in the process.

"Fine, then do it. Come to me immediately with anything you find."

"You don't have to act brave, Arthur," Leon still sounds too kind. Arthur wants to hit him for it.

"Just find who did this," Arthur snaps. "I want to stay here alone for a moment."

Under the weight of Arthur's sharp gaze, Leon nods and retreats out of the room. Arthur watches him, knows that everything Leon does is out of sympathy that Arthur doesn't want, but he does his best to shrug it off. At the door, Leon glances back towards Merlin with a pointed look, but Merlin purses his lips and faces Arthur instead. Arthur watches Leon leave, tries to gather his thoughts and smother his guilt, but the attempt is ruined when Merlin shoves at him.

"What are you playing at?" Merlin shoves again, but his words a harsh whisper. "What good do you think will come of that, Arthur?"

Arthur sidesteps away from Merlin to avoid being pushed again. He folds his arms over his chest and glares, determined this time. He shuts the door, then turns back to continue glaring at Merlin.

"I can't let Mordred take the fall for this. He doesn't deserve it."

Merlin looks pained. A worried crease develops in the centre of his brow. He swipes his hands over his face, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"It's too late for that," he admits. "Everything's been set into motion. I convinced Mordred to leave. There's nothing to be done for it now. I'm sorry."

The harsh expression on Arthur's face slips into blank gaping. Merlin drops his hands and meets Arthur's gaze. He shrugs a shoulder, uncertain.

"Why?" Arthur demands, and all softness leaves his voice. "He's done nothing to you."

"You don't understand," Merlin says, determined. "He'd have ruined everything. You won't understand."

"Try me," Arthur grinds out through clenched teeth. "No more secrets, remember? What is your problem with Mordred?"

"His secrets aren't mine to tell."

They stare at each other for a long time, both stubborn and determined. Merlin starts fidgeting but resolutely says nothing, while Arthur maintains his ground and his determination. Far from giving up, though, Arthur exhales deeply, tired of waiting.

"Tell me anyway," Arthur commands. "Breach his confidence. Why would you suddenly care about that, anyway? And how did you convince him to leave?"

Merlin nods his head, shifts his stance uneasily, runs his hands through his hair.

"A lot of things have been foretold about your rule," Merlin begins, his voice low. "And one of those things is that Mordred will interfere if given the chance. We can't – I can't – let him have that chance."

"So what did you do?" Arthur insists. He knows he's repeating himself, but he needs to know.

"He missed the meal last night, so I sought him out to speak with him while everyone else ate. I told him..." Merlin hesitates for a moment and glances away, and his fidgeting worsens. Arthur reaches out and grabs his hands and holds them still. "I told him your father had discovered an important secret of his. We argued, but he finally agreed to flee. We have enough in common that he trusted me, that he left because I encouraged it, for his own safety."

Merlin's finished explaining, and Arthur lets his thoughts settle, and something occurs to him. It leaves him feeling uneasy.

"Just before you found me last night," Arthur begins, slow and uncertain. "That was you and Mordred in the corridor?"

"I guess you saw us fighting, didn't you?" Merlin doesn't seem to be fazed, but it unsettles Arthur.

"It didn't look like fighting to me," Arthur contradicts him. "It looked like..."

Arthur trails off, but Merlin waits expectantly for him to continue.

"What did it look like?"

Merlin's confusion is obvious, and Arthur has no desire to push the issue.

"Nothing," sighs out, pushing his bitterness aside and shaking his head. "It looked like nothing."

Merlin furrows his brow further, disconcerted by Arthur's evasiveness. Arthur refuses to say anything else on the matter. He quickly changes subject, ignoring the strange look from Merlin.

"Why would he trust you, anyway?" Arthur demands to know, irrationally irritated. "You don't get along."

"We get on well enough that he knows to trust me on certain things."

Merlin's evasive and vague, and Arthur doesn't appreciate that at all. He won't even look at Arthur, which is even more annoying. Following Merlin's gaze, however, Arthur realizes that's more about staring at something than looking away from Arthur. Uther's presence, or rather his body's continued existence while his life has gone, is disconcerting. It makes their conversation stranger, and Arthur feels suffocated by the atmosphere.

"Merlin," Arthur whispers, his voice a plea as he looks away. "As much as I'd love to hear you talk about your secret friendship with Mordred, I can't discuss this any further while we stand over my father's dead body."

A hand on his shoulder stops him from walking out, but he doesn't turn to look at Merlin.

"How can you be angry with me for sparing Mordred but not for killing your father?"

"Because you're not sparing Mordred; you're making him a victim of something that he has nothing to do with him. He doesn't deserve to have his life thrown away," Arthur snaps. "Because he's my friend and a good man."

Merlin tightens his grip and forcefully twists Arthur around so that they face one another again. He half attempts to pull away, but Merlin holds him firmly in place with a hand on either shoulder, with a strength that always surprises Arthur when it is applied. There's no look of anger, repulsion, or anything negative on Merlin's face, which only compounds Arthur's own irritation. Just Merlin's determination, the only worthy rival of Arthur's own stubbornness, can be found in the lines of his face.

"I know," Merlin insists, enunciating each word slowly, as if speaking to a disobedient child. "You're close to him. But whether he knew it or not, if he stayed, he would have ruined everything. He can't live and stay here. This is the greatest kindness we can afford him. Honest." Merlin lets his arms fall, but he holds the eye contact. "Leon seems to have taken charge. I'm sure he'll want to speak with you about what must happen now, in regards to a funeral and your role as king. I'll leave you to it."

Merlin steps away, Arthur stops him with a hand on his elbow.

"Wait," he demands. Merlin looks at him questioningly. Arthur kisses him, hard but brief. "I'm still angry," he amends. "But I trust you."

Merlin reaches up to toy with a lock of Arthur's hair. His face is solemn, and he's not fidgeting in the slightest.

"And I trust you," Merlin murmurs. "And that's how we'll get through this."

There's an exchange of forced smiles with only a hint of hope to back up Merlin's claim, but then Merlin is gone. Leon tries to talk to Arthur, to comfort him, to ask him questions, but Arthur's thoughts follow Merlin out the door as he pays very little attention to making arrangements.

When Leon gathers the knights later that day to determine a course of action, it quickly becomes apparent that they are missing a person. Upon mildly interrogating those present, Leon makes the discovery that not one person has seen Mordred since the previous night. Arthur doesn't help them reach that conclusion. He wonders if that makes matters worse, because he feels terrible about it. Arthur instinctively looks toward the corner of the room where Merlin usually stands during these meetings. He's not there. Arthur kicks himself internally for insisting that Merlin stay uninvolved for the time being. He aches for Merlin's soothing presence to calm his anxiety. Instead, left untended, the guilt spreads through his mind, consuming more of him with each passing moment.

Arthur finds it easier to follow Leon's arrangements than to disagree and finds his own way of doing things. When it comes to the plans for a coronation, the thought of it alone makes him feel ill, and he listens to them even less than he had to the discussion of his father's murder and Mordred's disappearance. He closes his mind to the sound of voices around him. It's Uther's seat that he sits in. Uther's table, Uther's men. A pang of guilt overcomes him when he thinks of how he didn't just take his father's life, but he robbed men of a leader, a friend. Everything about the situation is disgusting. Hands clench on the edge of the stone table, teeth grind painfully -- Arthur hopes nobody notices his discomfort, his guilty heart.

"Is something wrong, sire?" Gaius inquires, curious and careful as always.

No such luck, then. Gaius has always been one of the most comforting and observant people to have around, and it makes Arthur wish he had other places to be or patients to tend to. He shakes his head, but can't force a verbal response from himself, can't let go of the table, can't look anyone in the eye.

"You should rest, Arthur," Leon says quietly in his ear when he doesn't respond, preventing anyone else from overhearing. "We'll take care of this. I'll fill you in on everything later. After you've-- when you feel better."

Arthur hates the kindness that Leon exudes. Hitting Leon sounds thrilling, like it would relieve the guilt that consumes him. Another thought strikes him, one of betrayal that makes him angrier, but he keeps it internalized. He worries about Leon's intentions and doubts his loyalty, but shoves that aside to consider later. He grits his teeth together, purses his lips, then strides out of the room. With only a little more practice, his ability to march out of a room is bound to match the level of drama in Uther's thunderous exits.

As soon as he exits, he's grabbed by the arm and pulled out of entryway. He protests loudly, but he stops his complaint abruptly when he sees a head of dark, messy hair and skinny arms that unmistakably belong to Merlin. Gratitude surges through him at the thought of Merlin waiting for him, despite being told to leave Arthur alone and not to attend the meetings. He follows willingly as Merlin leads, but they don't stop until they reach the physician's quarters. Merlin edges close and moves to embrace him, but Arthur shifts away from his touch.

"Gaius is still in the council room, isn't he?" Merlin's confusion is evidenced by the appearance of that crease in the centre of his forehead.

Arthur nods in confirmation.

"So is there a reason for insisting that I don't touch you?"

Arthur shrugs. There isn't a good reason, not one specific to Merlin. He needs physical space to comprehend the mess that has developed in his mind. The curiosity doesn't leave Merlin's face, but he maintains distance from Arthur. He leans against the timeworn table in the middle of the room, resting his hands on it. Arthur sighs and leans heavily against the door, but he doesn't say anything.

"I just need a moment to think, Merlin. Leon is—" Arthur muses, before he stammers to a stop. "I don't trust him. He's too eager to take on responsibility. And I think he doubts my ability to rule. He likely thinks he can do better."

Merlin rubs his hands over his face, and then runs them through his hair.

"Brilliant," he grumbles, still mussing his hair fretfully. "And then there's Gaius."

"What about him?"

"He knows."

It takes a moment for Arthur to understand, but at Merlin's pointed look and sharp – but otherwise meaningless – gesture, he finally gets it.

"How?" he demands.

"Well," Merlin sounds unsure. "I don't know for certain. But he knows _something_ is suspicious. It won't take him long to discover something incriminating. He always sees through my deceit, and it won't be long before he uncovers the truth. Or enough of it to condemn us."

Arthur's need for separation dwindles to nothing, and he finally steps away from the door. He rests his head on Merlin's shoulder, wraps his arms around his waist while Merlin reciprocates. Merlin's breath is shallow in his ear. Both their heartbeats thump so fast Arthur wonders if they might burst.

"What should we do, Arthur?" Merlin's breathy whisper is warm against Arthur's mouth, but he still shivers – out of want, fear... everything sends a chill down his spine.

"I don't know," Arthur admits. "What would Gaius do to us?"

Merlin lifts a shoulder carelessly, but Arthur knows that he's anything but nonchalant. Arthur tightens his grip, pulling Merlin closer.

"At best, he would send me away from here."

The quiet words make Arthur dig his fingers into Merlin's hips. There's a muffled gasp as a result, but Merlin doesn't otherwise object, and Arthur can't let go. Not when the prospect of losing Merlin is presented to him.

"And what is the worst possible outcome?" Arthur has to know. He doesn't want to know, not really, but he has to be aware of what is at risk.

"I don't know."

"I can practically smell the lies on your breath," Arthur mutters as he closes his eyes.

"I've only ever done things that slightly bother him," Merlin presses his cheek against Arthur's. "And that was rarely anything that put anyone at danger. He won't appreciate murder, even if it is to better Camelot."

"What sort of things do you do that irritate him?" Arthur asks, needing a moment's respite from the heavy topic.

"Dreadfully boring things," Merlin admits, thankfully obliging Arthur's abrupt change in conversational material. He chuckles, and his voice is a quiet and breathy sound that's instantly arousing. "You know, breaking jars, harbouring criminals, breaking people out of the dungeons. The usual things that youths do."

Merlin draws away minutely, but Arthur tugs him back. Merlin kisses his cheek, then pries Arthur's hands off him, finger by finger. He maintains his hold on Arthur's hands, though, and Arthur appreciates that there is at least still physical contact between them.

"You leaving isn't an option, you know," Arthur declares. "I won't let anyone do anything to you. Not Gaius, Leon, or anyone."

Arthur pulls him close again, envelopes him in another embrace, from which Merlin doesn't try to pull away. Time stops for a long time as they rest there, leaning against the door. They provide comfort for each other while time waits for them to continue at will. At least it feels that way. The sensation is broken when the door opens inward, forcing them to separate and draw away from the door. Gaius enters, an eyebrow raised from the moment he walks in. Merlin looks at a loss for words.

"Gaius," Arthur greets, determined not to give himself away. "I was hoping you would be back soon, and if you give me a sleeping draught."

"Of course, my lord," Gaius promises, but he does not move from his spot. "I gave one to your father last night, you know."

"You did?" The lump in Arthur's throat hopefully makes him sound upset about his father's death rather than nervous.

"Yes. I had delivered it to your father, because he said that he was seeing strange things. He couldn't walk straight, and he was imagining strange visions. If you're experiencing the same, Arthur, I need to know. It might be something that could spread everywhere."

Arthur stares at Gaius for a moment, surprised and confused enough that he does not immediately speak. Gaius' posture isn't necessary to convey his distrust; the only tool he needs his overly expressive face.

"No," Arthur says, but his voice croaks slightly as he says it. He clears his throat before repeating himself. "No, I can walk perfectly fine and I'm having no hallucinations, as far as I know. I just don't think I'll sleep well with thoughts of my father plaguing me."

He sounds stilted even to his own ears. Merlin's eyes widen slightly and Gaius' eyebrow creeps upward, and he knows they are mentally questioning his impassivity. When that harsh gaze turns away from Arthur, relief washes over him. The relief dies, however, when Gaius' attention falls on Merlin, every bit of his face taut with disappointment and judgment.

"Thank you, sir," Gaius says to Arthur, but he's still watching Merlin. "I'm sure Merlin was a hassle last evening. He was likely bothersome. Did he leave you to seek out his girl in his drunken state?"

"Girl?" Merlin and Arthur inquire simultaneously. Merlin sounds genuinely confused, which eases the irrepressible and stupid pang of jealousy that surges through Arthur briefly.

"Yes, of course." Gaius sounds almost smug, and Arthur clenches his fists, disguising his irritation to the best of his ability. "Whoever the girl is that keeps you out most nights, Merlin. Oh, you thought I never noticed? I notice much more than you think."

A passing glance is made in Arthur's direction, first from Gaius, then Merlin. Merlin looks terrified, and Gaius inspires fear. With one last look at Merlin, Arthur knows Merlin was right, that while nothing was explicitly stated, Gaius knows some measure of the truth. He's mostly silent as he waits for Gaius to find the right potion. He bolts from the room as quickly as he can. Eager to rid his mind of the unease Gaius stirred, Arthur pours the liquid down his throat as soon as he's in his room. He doesn't wait to see if Merlin will come to him, and he's asleep before he can find out. In the morning, he feels more alone than ever.

"And if he does something soon?"

For nearly a week, they have the same conversation almost daily. Merlin spends most of his nights staying in the chambers he shares with Gaius, trying to quell suspicions and to prove as helpful as he can be. It doesn't seem to help.

The likelihood of Gaius's knowing about their actions grows with each hint he drops, and they both become anxious. Merlin frequently tries to argue that they must do something about it, but Arthur's reluctant to encourage him in the matter. Each time Merlin tells of what Gaius implies, Arthur worries with him, but says little.

"And what if he somehow does find out exactly what happened? Would he even do anything about it?" He doesn't look up as he speaks, instead keeping his head bent over his writing desk as he speaks. He has work to do, and they have a different version of this discussion almost daily.

"I don't know for certain what he'll do, but he does know. He stopped hinting today." Merlin pauses. Arthur hears him shuffling around and imagines that he's gesturing wildly as he tries to form words. "He told me he knows."

This time, Arthur lifts his head, giving Merlin his full attention. He hopes that Merlin is trying to fool him, and he looks for a sign of dishonesty, but all he sees is fear. Dizziness threatens his balance, and the quill drops as his hands fall to the desk, where he clings tightly to support himself.

"He knows," he parrots in a choked whisper. "How does he know?"

"That night," Merlin begins, his voice low, shaky. "He said he knows something strange was going on the night Uther died. And since then... who knows how he discovers the things he knows."

"What will he do?" he tries to keep his own fear out of his voice, but fails miserably.

"I don't know," Merlin admits. "But he won't sit by and let this slide. He said that much. He will do something. Arthur, he can't have the chance to ruin anything."

"He wouldn't do anything disastrous," Arthur insists, sounding steadier than he feels, staring firmly down at his papers, doesn't want to reveal just how uneasy he is. "It's Gaius."

"He knows it wasn't Mordred," Merlin continues, ignoring Arthur's assumptions. "He's right to suspect that; Mordred would have used subtler means, and he wouldn't run away like a coward if he had something to gain from Uther's death."

"Honestly, how could either of you know claim to know how Mordred would kill someone? Gaius especially doesn't know anything about Mordred; he hardly—"

"He knows enough," Merlin snaps, catching Arthur off-guard. "And anyway, he still knows I was involved somehow. He told me as much. He also suspects you, but that doesn't matter. He's a physician, and you're the king. Divine ruler chosen by God, you know. You're untouchable. "

"I'm on the throne because of you more than the will of God," Arthur scoffs. "He turned his back long ago and left you in his place. I'd be better off praying to you than him."

A weak, crooked smile flickers across Merlin's face, accompanied by a brief, one-shouldered shrug. Arthur manages to push himself away from his work, his supportive writing desk, and wraps his hands instead around Merlin's shoulders, shaking him slightly and staring firmly, unblinkingly.

"The fact remains," Merlin persists. "I'm probably doomed."

"No," Arthur declares. "He wouldn't. He wouldn't do something to harm you. It's Gaius."

He keeps repeating Gaius' name, hoping to make sense of everything. Gaius' relationship with Merlin must mean something. The support and love, while not entirely obvious, has always consistently been bestowed on Merlin. It's even occasionally been extended to include Arthur, and that must have more power than one crime.

"He's disapproved of things you've done before," Arthur reminds him. "And he's never punished you for any of those things."

Merlin slides out of Arthur's grip, forcefully pulling free, drawing away from Arthur until he collapses against the wall. Arthur doesn't follow him. Instead, he remains rooted where he stands, hands still outstretched, willing Merlin to return to him. He doesn't.

"There isn't really a precedent for this." Merlin's eyes are scrunched closed, his face strained. "He didn't approve of many things Uther did, but regicide isn't something he would condone."

Slumping back into his chair, Arthur covers his face with his hands. Each breath is shallow, and it's a challenge to slow his breathing back to resemble a normal rate.

"And what are we supposed to do about that?" he implores. The words catch in his throat and he has to swallow around them to prevent any unpleasant sounds from bursting through of their own accord. "If we can't just ask him to remain silent."

"Nothing," Merlin snaps.

"What do you mean, nothing?" Arthur jerks his head up, drops his hands. The tautness of Merlin's features sharpens further somehow. He's striking and lovely in his anger, though Arthur doesn't dare tell him that while he's such a mood. "You've been insisting for days that something might need to be done."

"We do nothing," the reiteration is sharp, words emphasized in odd places, conflicting with Arthur's understanding. "You will do nothing. You're the king. This will likely not affect you for a long time, and you have better things to do."

There's an edge to his voice that's too impassive for Arthur to dismiss it. The resignation in his voice seeps into his stance, and Merlin hunches his shoulders, slinking down slightly against the stone at his back. Arthur approaches him cautiously, as if nearing a frightened animal. Jumpy, Merlin yanks himself into a rigid, upright posture, and Arthur instantly stops in his path.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his tone low. "Merlin." He risks another step closer again. "What are you implying?"

"I'm suggesting that you continue what you've been doing," Merlin pauses to fix him with a stare that is inexplicably icy. "And you can ignore this entirely. That's what you've done every other time I've mentioned this issue with Gaius lately."

Arthur reaches towards Merlin, who instantly recoils. The outstretched hand falls again, hurt and confusion sweeping through him.

"I never ignored it," Arthur swears. "There's just never been anything that we can do. There's nothing to be done for it."

"No," Merlin counters. "No. There's nothing for you to do, but there is something that I must do. I'll do this on my own."

"What are you planning on doing?"

"It doesn't matter." The assertion is uttered without any hint of uncertainty. "I ought to; I have to do this myself."

"You're not making any sense," Arthur mumbles, still confused by the entire exchange. "But if that's what you want."

"It is," Merlin iterates as he slinks farther away, closer to the door.

There's a quality to his shuffling that's uncomfortable, and the awkwardness slips into the mess of thoughts in Arthur's mind, triggering a realization that might be too late to do any good.

"Merlin," Arthur cries out, but it's too late. Merlin stiffens, and his face hardens noticeably at the exclamation. "What will you do?"

"Just leave this to me, all right?"

The softness of the request is surprising and in sharp contrast with the rest of Merlin's demeanour and everything he's said so far. It forces a startled, acquiescent nod from Arthur, and Merlin sprints out of the room, leaving Arthur alone, terrified of their new default reaction to trouble, and embarrassingly relieved that he won't have to be involved in removing the threat that Gaius presents.

Burying the mixed feeling of worry and relief – in fact, doing his best to cast everything aside – he returns to his writing desk, forcing himself to focus on anything that might distract him from thoughts of Merlin and Gaius. Nothing does.

Arthur doesn't visit Merlin after the deed has been done. Not out of unwillingness, but Merlin had specifically asked that Arthur leave him be. Not speaking with his servant for days after Gaius' death might be too much, but Merlin does not seek out comfort, and Arthur assumes he wants space and time to mourn on his own. Merlin's absence and the burden of his responsibilities make him angrier by the day, so he neglects his duties in favour of letting his misplaced rage wrap around him in solitude. Still, a week passes before concern for Merlin outweighs everything else and he's forced to seek him out.

His desire to let Merlin come to terms with Gaius' death on his own terms conflicts with Arthur's need to see him to soothe his own aches, but finally he can no longer endure Merlin's absence from his life. He opens the door to the physician's quarters slowly, and it creaks loudly in protest. Arthur glares at it, but to no effect; it continues groaning until Arthur shuts it firmly behind him. Upon his first glance around, Arthur assumes Merlin hasn't been here all week. The curtains are drawn and the room is dark and covered with dust. A messy pile of dirty plates remain on the table, but they could easily be from before Gaius met his end. He nearly turns around to walk back out, but a fleeting scuffling sound stops him.

"Merlin?" he calls out, unsure where to look.

In a far corner, in between a shelf and a small table, he finds Merlin. No response is uttered, but he at least looks up at Arthur. His knees are drawn up to his chest, arms around his legs, pulling himself into the smallest shape possible. He looks nearly as dusty as the room, his hair is unkempt, his eyes wide and rimmed with red. He lifts one arm only to wipe his cheek, leaving a long smudge of dirt behind, and then returns to his original position.

"Merlin," Arthur says again, dropping to his knees next to him.

"I can't escape it," Merlin whispers, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

"What can't you escape?" Arthur asks, quiet as he pulls Merlin up only enough to draw him into his arms. Merlin tips his head forward until rests on Arthur's chest, but otherwise he does not shift.

"I can't undo what I've done," Merlin chokes out, his voice trembling. "And I can't escape the guilt of it."

Arthur kisses the top of Merlin's head. He tries to comfort, but no words seem to be appropriate, so he merely strokes Merlin's hair gently. Merlin releases a sharp sob, but it's quickly cut off with the briefest of sniffles.

"It's all right," Arthur murmurs soothingly in Merlin's ear, his voice as soft as he can manage. "You can cry if you need to. You don't need to conceal your emotions. You've nothing to be ashamed of."

Merlin pulls out of Arthur's embrace at that. He lingers for a moment, their faces close, and eyes flickering back and forth, never settling on one target.

"Yes, I do," he insists as he stands. "I can't get rid of my guilt, and I'm guilty for everything. There's so much."

He sounds angrier with each word. Arthur follows him closely for a moment, but Merlin glares at him, so he settles for watching from a distance. Merlin grabs the washbasin, which is dry until Merlin magics water into it. The water splashes sloppily when he plunges his hands under the surface, where he scrubs roughly at the dry skin repeatedly. He occasionally drains the bowl with another glimmer of golden eyes, only to refill it and restart the process.

"It won't leave me," Merlin bursts out. He starts to weep, but he still doesn't stop scrubbing at his hands, not even to wipe his face.

"What are you doing?" Arthur desperately wants to know, but he does his best to keep that need from leaking into his voice.

"I want the blood off my hands," Merlin explains as if it's the most sensible thing in the world. "I killed them, I killed _Gaius,_ and I'll never be free of that guilt. His blood is on my hands."

Arthur places a hand on Merlin's shoulder, but it's forcefully shaken off.

"Don't touch me, Arthur," Merlin commands. "I did this to myself. I couldn't poison him with his own potions. Even the despicable person I've become can't do that. That's too much. And I couldn't bring myself to stab anyone else, not after seeing Uther in that moment, so I..."

Merlin drops his head until his chin hits his chest. The sniffles visibly shake him, and are the only sign that he's still conscious. Arthur can't decide if that's good or bad. He wants to know everything Merlin is willing to tell, but Merlin also looks as though he hasn't slept in days.

"I smothered him with a pillow," Merlin explains, his voice barely loud enough to be audible. "And now I don't even want to use pillows because of that memory. Everything around me is a reminder of something horrific."

"Have you even been sleeping?" Arthur demands to know. It might not be the most prudent question, but he can't help worrying and has to ask. At Merlin's lengthy hesitation, Arthur wraps both arms around Merlin's shoulders, pressing his hands to Merlin's chest, feeling the thump of his heartbeat, reminding him of how fragile Merlin is.

"I'm so sorry, love," Arthur whispers in his ear. "I should have been here by your side."

"Yes, you should have," Merlin snaps.

"You said you wanted to be left alone!" He can't resist a retort. He wishes he had been there as support, and Merlin's words sting him with truth.

"I didn't want you there!" Merlin pulls his hands out of the water, shakes them violently in the air near Arthur's face. Arthur recoils. The water on his face is nothing, but these words hurt more than the last. Merlin calms minutely – enough to amend his claim. "I didn't want you there when I killed him. I couldn't let you see that. But I needed you after that."

While taking the opportunity of relative composure to take Merlin's face in his hands, Arthur steps closer until their thighs brush lightly against each other. Lips drawn in a tight line, but quivering, Merlin clenches his fists at his sides and continues his tirade.

"You wanted so badly to remain neutral. You successfully did that. Aren't you happy now?"

Merlin pushes at him, but Arthur doesn't budge, doesn't move an inch away, and in fact just clings more tightly.

"You think your pain makes me happy?" Arthur demands. It's less of a question and more of an incredulous exclamation. "Do you honestly believe that I could see you like this and that it would give me joy?"

Merlin makes another attempt to withdraw, reaches towards the water to keep scrubbing at his hands until they'd become red and raw, but Arthur pushes the basin aside.

"It doesn't matter if my misery gives you joy or pain." His voice is a bitter whisper that cuts into Arthur, all while his hands shake and he backs farther away from Arthur. "Their blood is always going to be on my hands, no matter what you feel."

There's no way to deny that with any semblance of honesty, so Arthur says nothing. He holds Merlin's hands in his own, steadying them. He lifts them and kisses the knuckles before pulling Merlin close again. The shaking doesn't stop, and this time both Arthur and Merlin are shaking.

"I wanted you here with me, and you never came." His voice is tight and his eyes are bright with angry tears, but he doesn't withdraw again.

"I'm here now," he reminds Merlin, wrapping arms around his waist as if to prove his presence.

"You're still late," Merlin insists, clenching fistfuls of Arthur's clothes, keeping him close despite his earlier protests. "Too late to do much good."

"I'm sorry," Arthur repeat, tightening his grip, holding him firmly, hopefully comforting rather than stifling.

Fingers dig into Arthur's ribs, hard and he emits a loud gasp at the shock of it. The noise is swallowed immediately by Merlin's mouth on his own. Arthur lets him, doesn't mind it at all until Merlin refuses to back away for the sake of breathing. Merlin is persistent, and gives very little opportunity for Arthur to respond in kind. He takes over for both of them, grabbing Arthur's wrists to place them where he wants, makes Arthur hold onto Merlin's hips, maneuvering them to his desires.

"Hold on a moment," Arthur manages with a shallow breath stolen while Merlin's busy rearranging limbs to his liking.

The look Merlin gives him cuts Arthur's words short; there's still fear, but something darker than fear or lust lingers as well, like he needs this to remain intact. Closing his eyes to the sight, he leans against Merlin, their foreheads pressed together, bodies wholly pressed against one another. They cling to each other, and it would be difficult to determine who is comforting or supporting whom.

Merlin, however, grows anxious, and begins to fidget. He steps closer until he trips over Arthur's feet and nearly knocks them both to the floor. Hopes of having calmed Merlin disappear with the recurrence of the familiar sensation of warm fingers wrapped around Arthur's arms, but it's too tight, too controlling, too restrictive, too intense. Every moment is too aggressive, and Arthur stills while Merlin's hands roam everywhere.

"What are you doing?" Merlin demands to know. "Not interested? Am I no longer enough to hold your attention?"

"Of course you are. You always are," Arthur reassures him. "But this isn't right. You know that. Don't you want time to mourn properly?"

"I've been mourning in solitude for days. Right now I just need any sort of relief from this guilt, Arthur. Let me have this one distraction."

A steely glare levels Arthur before Merlin looks away to start peeling off layers of their clothing. Arthur remains stoic, unmoving, but Merlin doesn't comment on it again.

"I'm not joking, Merlin," Arthur insists. "I'm not sure this is a good time for this."

One last dramatic flourish of hands finish pulling Merlin's tunic off, but he stops after that's done. Confusion flits across his face, but otherwise he remains still.

"And what if I think it's a brilliant idea for you to tear off my clothes right now? Does that mean anything to you? Or is it more important that I deal with this mess in a way you think I should?"

"I don't want to deny you anything," Arthur admits, but he rubs his hands over his face as he sighs out his exasperation.

Merlin must take it as resignation, giving in, or at least some sign of agreement, because Arthur feels lips cover his own before he even realizes he's dropped his hands. In an act of defeat and submission, Arthur follows the example given by Merlin's mouth. Merlin's still too rough, too aggressive, but he endures it as Merlin guides their hands, arms, bodies to his liking.

Arthur watches carefully and allows Merlin to continue pulling off their clothing and manoeuvring their bodies. It's not unusual for Merlin to take charge, it's never bothered him in the past, but this feels entirely different. There's something crazed in his countenance, and every movement is frantic and charged with electricity. Merlin never disregards Arthur's opinions and desires, but now he does. He's greedy as he tears clothing and magics away what little remains, persistent as he crowds Arthur against the wall.

"Merlin, this is too—"

His words are cut short again by a brief brush of lips on his own, but then the contact between their bodies ceases. Arthur feels an embarrassing amount of reassurance in that – Merlin's touch has always been nothing short of lovely and dizzying, but the craze that drives him now is cause for concern. The moment of relief does not last long, and Merlin presses close once more, too fast, raising silent alarms in Arthur's mind.

Arthur's worry is marred by the confusing addition of arousal as his cock is engulfed by Merlin's mouth. The warm, wet sensation of every stroke, lick, and other movement makes everything worrisome disappear from his thoughts. Teeth scratch too hard, too often, but he endures it alongside the enjoyment of the rest. At least once, twice, Merlin's teeth switch from grazing harshly but subtly, to outright biting. Each time, Arthur yelps and tugs sharply at Merlin's hair. The only response is the unapologetic curve of Merlin's mouth in a distorted smile and a soothing swipe of tongue.

"Could you please not—" Arthur begins, but Merlin hums around his cock, providing a distraction agreeable enough that his sentence ends with an involuntary gasp.

Merlin pulls away with a sloppy-wet smacking sound. Arthur groans, mourning the lack of Merlin's mouth. Hands still roam, both Arthur and Merlin touching everything within reach, mouths marking every inch possible. Merlin is all teeth, nails, and sharp angles that aren't objectionable but are too much to be entirely pleasant, but Arthur grits his teeth and tries to soften Merlin's abruptness with his own, gentler responses. He does his best to calm Merlin into less frantic, less painful touches, but no kisses, caresses, or anything else has his desired effect.

"Merlin, please," he begs, anxious for just a moment of repose. "Just slower, all right?"

His plea is purposely misunderstood. They're too intimately familiar with each other for it to be unintentional, for such an obvious request to go unnoticed, but Merlin continues onward, one hand drifting away from Arthur to tease his own hole while the other hand presses Arthur's shoulder against the wall, keeping him in place, though he wonders if an attempt to push Merlin away would inspire him to use magic to keep Arthur still. He grips Merlin's waist with one hand, pulling at his cock with the other. He rests his head against the wall behind him as he lets Merlin do this his way, allows his hand to press on. Merlin whispers a string of indistinguishable syllables, and his hand shimmers in the light, coated in something slick, before slipping out of Arthur's peripheral vision as it continues on its course.

"Arthur," Merlin mumbles into the crook of his neck, pausing to nip at the soft skin there. "I need – please – help me."

The remains of Arthur's resolve crumbles at Merlin's half-uttered request. He hates to see Merlin incapable of expressing his desires and needs and feels compelled to fulfil them if he can. He pulls Merlin tighter, closer, aligning their bodies in his first semblance of willing control all evening. Merlin wastes no time and takes over once more, guiding Arthur's cock, eyes glowing briefly once again, and the slick on Merlin's hand now appears on Arthur. He presses inside, closing the gap between them by every means possible. Arthur kisses him once, soft and brief.

The sight of their bodies sliding into place has always been a point of fascination for Arthur, but the angle is all wrong for that. Even if it wasn't, Merlin doesn't allow much time for contemplation or observation. He draws away from the kiss to drive a brutal, desperate rhythm between their bodies. Arthur braces himself against the wall with a hand, head thrown back, overwhelmed by the pace that threatens both pain and release. He clings to Merlin, but he can't remain inactive, and meets Merlin's every thrust with one of his own. Slick with their sweat, Arthur slips forward, slides down the wall slightly. Merlin relents at that, pausing momentarily until they're entirely upright again, maintaining his grip on Arthur's hips the whole time.

"Don't even consider stopping now," Arthur hisses.

It's the only encouragement Merlin needs. There's shifting and squirming as he adjusts their angle, but involuntary gasps fall from Merlin's lips, spurring Arthur on. Hands slip to Merlin's arse, eliciting groans and a more frantic rhythm. The way Merlin fucks makes him feel like he's on fire; it consumes him, burning around him and underneath the skin, and the pain is somehow mesmerizing. It's impossible to withdraw from the heat out of fear that he'll miss something spectacular. Unable to take it anymore, Arthur twists them until he has Merlin pressed against the wall. Merlin quirks a partial grin at him, the wicked glint in his eyes satisfied with the turn of events. He lifts Merlin higher, pushes up into him before placing both hands against the wall near Merlin's head. They maintain their harsh pace, and pleasure at last overwhelms the rest of his senses.

It doesn't take long before Merlin groans his release, tightening around Arthur, sending a chill down his spine, but it's still not enough. Nearly overcome and now in need of relief, Arthur starts to pull away to take care of it himself. Nails scratch down his back, effectively keeping him in place and evoking a yelp between pleasure and pain, and it brings him painfully close.

"I don't think you're done yet," Merlin murmurs, his voice a sultry distraction from the stinging of his skin, his mouth against Arthur's neck, gentle for the first time.

The suddenly soothing touch is in such contrast with everything just experienced that it brings Arthur to the edge. Nails scrape lightly over his skin again, countered with soft lips trailing a wet path up his neck. The contradiction, the return of a gentler Merlin, is enough that when Merlin bites at his ear, he tenses, blissful relief washing over him. Knees weak, he holds tightly to Merlin for support. Gasping for breath, he rests his head against Merlin's shoulder, fingers still tight around his waist.

Long moments pass, heartbeats slow to normalcy, and soon Merlin untangles himself from Arthur's embrace. His arms hang loose at his sides, his body emanating sex-induced lethargy, yet the hollow wildness in his eyes remains. Merlin inches away, slowly, likely intending for it to unnoticed, but Arthur's fingers suddenly around his wrist must hint that he didn't miss Merlin's careful retreat.

"Now," Arthur begins, firmness in his tone once more. "Where are you trying to sneak off to?"

"Back to my corner, I suppose," Merlin says with a shrug. "You can leave. I know that's what you want to do."

Arthur tugs him close again, wrapping arms around his shoulders. He waits for Merlin to respond in kind, to at least acknowledge the embrace, but no move is made. His breathing steadies, obvious against the crook of Arthur's neck, and he takes that as a positive sign.

"I won't leave," Arthur promises. "I should never have left you alone with this, and I won't leave you again."

Arthur pulls slightly away from Merlin, but only enough to effectively convey with his expression that he means to keep his word. More than ruffled by sex, Merlin looks harried and worn. Not only does his body no longer thrum with nervous energy, but his eyes are ringed with dark circles from lack of sleep, the usual brilliance of his blue eyes is dulled. There's still something unresolved, unsettled, and wild in his countenance that Arthur can't comprehend, but he tries not to worry over it. Instead, he focuses on letting Merlin confront things bit by bit. He nods in acquiescence, and buries his face in Arthur's shoulder.

"What do you need?" Arthur asks, desperate to help him return to even a cheap imitation of his usual, cheerful self. A short, crazed burst of laughter escapes Merlin's lips, but the sound is so choked that it might be half a sob.

"There's nothing," Merlin admits, but the way his voice cracks betrays the lie he tells. "I just want to sleep."

Arthur watches Merlin, admiring and worrying while holding him in his arms. He waits for Merlin to drift asleep first that night, but he never sees it happen. Late into the night, Arthur falls asleep, while Merlin still lies awake.

Arthur doesn't let Merlin stay alone in the physician's quarters after that. He expects it to be difficult convincing Merlin to leave, but he goes willingly, and follows Arthur out of the memory-tainted rooms. Each night, however, Merlin pushes away from Arthur until he's on the very edge of the bed. Every time sleep draws near, Arthur wraps an arm around Merlin, pulling him back to where he ought to be. Merlin always obliges. Eventually he dozes off, but shaking with nightmares is a nightly occurrence. He mumbles incoherently in his sleep, and the sound wakes Arthur. Sleepwalking, Arthur quickly discovers, is also a frequent habit. What's most upsetting, however, is the talking. The first night Arthur hears it, it only sounds like jumbled nonsense, but after that, he listens more carefully. In the nights that follow, he sits up to watch Merlin, attentive in his observations.

"Foul things," Merlin whispers into the night. "Foul things in the air."

"What things?" Arthur tries to understand. He doesn't know why he even bothers, but he can't keep himself from trying.

"Blood still on my hands," Merlin continues, unperturbed by Arthur's attempt at interruption, and rubbing his hands together in an imitation of his constant scrubbing. "Nothing to be done, but blood still lingers."

Arthur tries to wake him, whispering gently at first, growing louder and nudging him more sharply until eventually shaking him violently. That finally does the trick, and Merlin's eyes shoot open, wide with panic as he gasps over and over for air. Arthur hesitates, unsure if the reaction is his fault, and he can't tell if he ought to provide comfort or give Merlin space. He finds a middle ground of sorts, instead lingering within Merlin's reach, arms limp at his sides.

Between gasps, Merlin reaches out clumsily, initially sweeping just through the air, but eventually he grabs and holds onto the front of Arthur's nightclothes. He doesn't pull close, just grips tightly to the fabric, and Arthur doesn't push it. He merely stands there, one hand on Merlin's outstretched hands over his clothes, but otherwise keeps still and separate. When he calms, they remain unmoving, and Merlin avoids Arthur's gaze.

"I take it I'm still walking about in my sleep?" Merlin assumes, coughing as if the words choke him.

"Perhaps," Arthur admits. "Has this been a habit for long?"

"Only since Gaius, I think," Merlin confesses. "Some of the servants have seen me in the halls. Leon knows. Gwen knows. She even confronted me about it. Countless people in the castle know. Of course you're the last to know."

Genuinely amused, Merlin smiles more brightly than he has in days. Thrilled at and encouraged by the sight of it, Arthur drags him into a tight embrace.

"Shut up, Merlin," he insists. Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur hits him lightly in the back of the head. The glare received in return is half-hearted at best. "Are you all right now?"

Merlin ducks his head. He rests it briefly on Arthur's shoulder, and the nod is felt as much as seen.

"Of course. I'm used to this." Bitterness tinges the edge of Merlin's voice, but Arthur doesn't mention it. "I think I'll sleep better now. Let's just go back to bed."

Merlin's right; he falls asleep almost immediately. He looks more peaceful than Arthur remembers seeing from him during waking hours in far too long. It feels like eons have passed since they were tiptoeing around the idea of eliminating Uther, and even longer than that since he last saw Merlin so content and at ease while conscious. If only it were possible again.

Some nights he lies quietly in Arthur's arms through the night. Others, he tosses and turns, disturbed by nightmares. He's occasionally angry, but it doesn't last long when he finds an anchoring point in Arthur's soothing embrace. In daylight hours, Merlin seems to be in a haze, hardly communicating with anyone when unnecessary. Nothing Arthur does or says has any lasting effect. If anything, Merlin seems to retreat further into solitude, and Arthur's left scrambling after him.

Amidst the peace of the dark, heavily wooded forest, it ought to be easy to forget problems, but Arthur can't push away his darker thoughts. Merlin insisted on not joining the hunting party under the guise of needing to organize Gaius' things, but Arthur could always see through his lies and half-truths, and it infuriates him that he was abandoned for the sake of solitude. Even hours after leaving the castle and Merlin behind them, Arthur swipes angrily at tree branches to relieve his frustration.

"Is everything all right, Arthur?"

It's Percy asking this time, but the question is still the same as what he's been asked all morning. The conditions are far from ideal for a hunt – the area is too thickly wooded, the sky above is dark, limiting their sight, and the wind screams loudly and changes unpredictably. Finally, Arthur's had more than enough of everyone's insistent, overbearing question, and his resolve to remain stoic breaks.

"No," he growls. "Everything is not all right. Now would all of you stop patronizing me and mind your own business?"

A low whistle and a loud chuckle – probably from Gwaine, who has been nothing but bothersome the entire time – makes its way from the rear of the group to Arthur's ears. Without pausing to consider the wisdom of it, Arthur whips around to determine the source of it.

"My irritation is not to be a subject for your amusement," he snaps.

"Look here, princess," Gwaine starts, blatantly ignoring the disapproving look Leon shoots his way. "I don't know what pea under your mattress is keeping you from sleeping, but you need to settle down before–"

"Gwaine!" Leon cuts him off, smacking him on the back of his head to shut him up.

"All right, I'm sorry," Gwaine says, but his insincerity is obvious by the chuckle that accompanies it. "He's the absolute ruler now. I should probably call you a queen now, I suppose?"

"Don't test me today, Gwaine," Arthur snarls as he turns around in an attempt to cut Gwaine's antics short. "And be quiet. You'll scare all the game away."

"No chance of that," comes Gwaine's too-cheerful retort. "There's nothing around anymore to scare away."

Arthur says nothing, but he knows Gwaine speaks the truth; they've been too loud, too careless, and the wind still inevitably carries their scent in whatever direction they travel towards. Still, he stubbornly continues on, forcing the others to follow suit. He remembers Merlin's insistence that he could safely be left alone while Arthur went off. Merlin would likely consider it a breach of trust if Arthur were to return early without good reason. He tightens his grip on his horse's reins, urges it to quicken its pace with a squeeze of his legs. Wrapped up in his thoughts, he barely notices when Leon trots up to his side, and hardly acknowledges him.

"I know you've been distracted and on edge lately," Leon says in a quiet tone that's impossible for the others to overhear. "As your friend, I want you to recover from your loss on your own terms, and on your own time. But the truth is, you can't afford to snap at anyone, even how you just reacted to Gwaine. If you don't visibly shape up for the public eye, you could be putting not just yourself but also Camelot at risk."

The words sting, more personal than Leon likely intends, considering his reasons for taking the throne and the deception employed to do so. Arthur reacts instinctively, gritting his teeth, gathering indignation like armour. He tenses, and even the mare beneath him also seems more alert.

"You don't think I'll protect my people?" He grinds out, his voice gravelly with anger waiting to bubble over. "That I don't have their best interests in mind?"

"No, Arthur, that's not–"

"I've put aside everything for them. I have risked everything – or, I would risk everything, I mean – for their benefit."

Their horses are skittish, almost as if upset by the terse atmosphere and commentary, twitching about and jerking their reins in their riders' hands. Leon disregards the horses to stare agape, confusion flickering across his face.

"I have no doubt that these past weeks have been hard for you, and I don't fault you for it, but there have been a few minor concerns in the kingdom, and even those have made you seem unstable. You always appear shaken and on edge. That will make others think that you are weak and that Camelot could be taken easily from a man enduring such hardship. You need to appear solid, dependable, unshakable. Even if you don't feel it."

"Listen," Arthur hisses as he tries to reins in the horse, though it's an ineffective manoeuvre. Arthur ignores it to stare Leon down. "I'm not a bad king."

"I didn't say that! I merely–"

"And I don't appreciate your–"

"Arthur!"

The exclamation isn't from Leon, as he'd expect, which is immediately confusing. He had all but forgotten there were others present. He spares a glance for Gwaine, who looks much too concerned for the interruption of their disagreement to be his only concern.

"There is something big, or dangerous, nearby," Gwaine insists, so quiet that Arthur strains himself to hear it.

"Enough, Gwaine." Arthur rolls his eyes, refusing to pander to him. "You just said that nothing nearby because of the noise we've been making. That hasn't particularly changed."

"The horses," is the simple response. "They sense something, and I've been hearing sounds from nearly every direction around us.

Arthur pauses for several long moments, fidgeting as he waits impatiently. He hears nothing but anxious horses and wind rustling leaves.

"I don't hear anything," Arthur asserts. "Let's keep moving."

Primarily, he wants to escape Leon's confrontation, but the others don't have to know that. He has no intentions of sharing that information with his companions. It ultimately doesn't matter at all, as only moments and a few paces later, there's a grander, more dangerous interruption. An arrow wizzes past his face, and nearly grazes the skin. He pulls at the reins in his hands, roughly moving the horse beneath him, craning his neck to peer at the trees in every direction, trying to glean information on the location of his attacker.

"Ambush!" someone in his party shouts unnecessarily.

"No. A warning."

The voice is low and melodious. It comes from no discernible source, yet is everywhere, hanging over them like a mist. It sends a chill down Arthur's spine, and his mare seems to feel similarly nervous.

"A warning for what?" Arthur demands to know, still constantly moving, hoping that someone will reveal their location to him. "Do you know who I am? I command you to step forward."

"I'm warning you because it amuses me to see you struggle," is the resonating response. "And I certainly know who you are. That is why I'm here, after all."

Frustrated with his lack of manoeuvrability, Arthur dismounts. He immediately draws his sword and turns in circles repeatedly, never moving far, but then he hears something move in the brush.

"Stay where you are," Arthur demands of his men as he abandons the group to inspect the sound.

He moves towards the trees despite the protests he hears behind him, the calls urging him to return to the group. Nothing jumps out at him, and there's no movement, but he continues into the trees several paces more, until he's no longer within sight of the others. Still, nothing underfoot indicates a disturbance, even in the form of wildlife. The area appears entirely undisturbed.

"There's nothing," he grumbles to himself out loud, ready to turn back to the others again.

Everything remains still and silent and there is no warning before he's thrown through the air, pushed backward by some invisible source until his back slams into a tree. With a resounding thud, he falls to the ground. He reaches for his sword, but it's nowhere within reach.

"Exactly. I am nothing." Now that the voice is sharp and clear in his ears, it's unmistakable. It shames him that he didn't immediately recognize it. "Just as you're nothing. And now you're in the way. Again."

He leaps to his feet, but the same invisible force pushes him again, harder than the first time. He yells in pain as his elbow bears the brunt of the impact.

"Morgana," Arthur breathes out, leans against the tree trunk behind him momentarily as he closes his eyes against the agonizing throbbing in his arm and the crushing mixture of emotions he always feels in her presence.

"You've become lazy, brother," she chides him. "I was able to catch you off-guard. I'm not supposed to give you any trouble, so you're fortunate that I occasionally honour my bargains. Mostly."

His eyes snap wide open. He rights his posture and stares her down. She looks as mad as ever; hair wild, clothing dishevelled, she looks a mess, yet she exudes more confidence than Arthur can even pretend to boast at the moment. Prior experience makes Arthur wary of making the first move.

"Don't worry," Her tone is smooth as honey – poisonous honey. "I'll try not to hurt you much. Someone wants to have a little chat with you."

He sees the silver glint of his sword. He reaches for it, but it's too far away. He crawls toward it, heavily favouring his left arm, but every movement sends pain coursing through his arm. When his hand finally hovers over the hilt of the sword, it slides away from him.

"You have never stood a chance against me, Arthur, "Morgana says, her voice filled with malice.

Arthur finally scrambles to his feet. He grabs at his sword again, this time succeeding in snatching it before it can be pulled away again. It grows white-hot in his hand and he's forced to drop it again, and he hisses at the sudden heat.

"What, can you not use your sword properly? That always has been a problem for you, hasn't it?"

He doesn't waste his breath on responding or his thoughts on remembering the past. Instead, he rushes at her, swinging a punch at her face that she easily evades. Morgana starts to utter a spell, strange words spilling out, harsh and throaty, and fire begins to sprout from the earth like vibrant plants. Arthur slams into her with his good shoulder, focusing all his strength on it. It doesn't knock her down, but it distracts her enough that she doesn't finish the spell, and the flames fizzle out.

"What do you want?" he fumes, but he's also biding his time, as he's unsure what to do now with a sore arm in an unarmed fight with a sorceress.

"I told you." Completely unaffected by Arthur's shove, she smiles. "I'm here to escort you. Important conversation, remember?"

She attempts to recast the spell, and this time she's faster, succeeding before Arthur can approach her again. Smoke pours into the air, more quickly than reasonable for any fire, and Arthur can't help but to cough as he breathes.

"You've allowed—" he coughs loudly, choking on the air and the words. "Yourself to be demoted?"

He feels the strike of a hand, hears the sound it makes on impact with his face, but he never sees it coming. He shuts his eyes against the pain of the smoke. He backs away, distancing himself as much as possible, hoping to reorient himself before he's attacked again. Before the chance arises, though, it becomes unnecessary.

There's a flash of light – brighter than the fire and cutting through the smoke – though it's nowhere near Arthur. Morgana's shriek pierces the air, and is quickly followed by a heavy thump. Barely a few seconds pass before the fire puts itself out, and the smoke dissipates within moments. When the air clears, the first thing Arthur sees is Gwaine standing over Morgana, a large tree limb in his hands.

"A branch, Gwaine?" Arthur rolls his eyes even as relief washes over him. "I'm grateful, but you really knocked her out with a heavy tree branch?"

Gwaine just shrugs, an unabashed smile gracing his face.

"What should we do? Leave her here?"

He doesn't want to leave her alone and unconscious on the forest floor, though the burst of compassion that inspires that makes Arthur want to kick himself. No, what she deserves is to be left alone out in the wilderness, but premature guilt claws at him, and he can't do that to her. He can't leave her injured and alone, even if the alternative is to imprison her.

"No," Arthur repeats, this time out loud. "We take her with us." At the look of his companions, he amends the statement. "As a captive, of course. I have no false hopes about bringing her back to our thinking. She's lost forever, but we can't let her stay here or wander back to whoever she's working with this time."

"I don't believe we have the means to contain her, sire." Naturally, it's Leon's voice of reason providing counterarguments to his plan.

"I have something that might do the trick," he admits almost to himself, hoping that Merlin will be both able and willing to help restrain her. "We need to return now. I don't want her waking up and starting another fight. Gwaine, you seem particularly fond of that branch now, correct?"

"Of course I am," Gwaine insists.

"Then use it if you need to. Just make sure that she stays docile and, preferably, unconscious."

The men agree with him, and they carry Morgana's limp form to their horses. Someone binds her hands, though nobody mentions how futile that is. Arthur lingers behind, out of earshot. The furtive glances between the others make Arthur suspicious, but he allows them the chance to gossip about what transpired between Arthur and Morgana. A spooky quality edges into the trees, and Arthur doesn't last long before he returns to the group. They make their way back home without successfully killing any game, but at least they successfully captured Morgana That has to count for something.

When they return to the castle, Arthur is instantly anxious to see Merlin. He half-expects him to be waiting at the gate, but he's nowhere to be seen. A stable boy tries to take the mare away from Arthur, but he refuses.

"I'll take care of my horse. I need you to do something more useful," Arthur demands. "Find Merlin, and bring him to me."

The boy scurries away. Arthur leads the horse toward the stable, his men and random bystanders watching him with wary or confused expressions, but he pays them no mind. The only person he allows to interrupt him is Gwaine, who doesn't say a word, but stands firmly in Arthur's path.

"Take her to the dungeons. I'll be there shortly. Don't let her wake."

He walks away, calmly leading his horse, before Gwaine has a chance to respond. Lethargic as he is while going through the motions, he doesn't object when another stable hand subtly takes over for him. Arthur commandeers a bench, far away from those working, and they steer away from him as they go about their duties. It nearly empties of people before Merlin shows up, sprinting to Arthur's side. The day in solitude, Arthur takes note, did nothing to calm the wildness in Merlin's face.

"You have Morgana in captivity," Merlin announces in lieu of greeting. "But only barely. And you're hiding in the stables? What's wrong with you?"

He doesn't say anything, but he looks up at Merlin, hoping to convey his dismay without words. Merlin's face softens and he kneels on the ground in front of him, taking Arthur's face in his hands.

"What are you thinking?" he asks gently. "What's bothering you?"

Arthur nervously looks about, but the area had cleared out as soon as Merlin approached. For whatever reason, the stable hands are terrified of Merlin and always avoid him. Now, they flee for cover, allowing for private conversation.

"I'm no better than Morgana," Arthur confesses. "Killing mindlessly to get what I want. Maybe we have different motives, but we're so similar. I can't punish her when I'm practically following in her footsteps."

The comforting touch of Merlin's hands drops from his face turns more possessive, more protective, and he glances up at Merlin.

"You're not," he insists. "You're absolutely not like her. She seeks revenge and power, and you've only ever sought justice and peace. Your motives are incredibly important. She's selfish, and you're willing to sacrifice yourself. That's a crucial difference."

"There's no difference; she murders people to attain her goals, as do I. Don't try to deny it. My father and Gaius are both dead, at my hands, because of me."

Merlin's face is void of any tell-tale emotion, which is vastly confusing. His hands drop, resting absently in Arthur's lap.

"You did what had to be done," Merlin insists, his tone studiously blank. "Eliminate one to save the many. Remember the lives you wanted to save? You wanted to preserve hope for the citizens of Camelot, to protect their hopes, to give _me_ hope despite my magic. Are you telling me that you don't want this? It's too late, Arthur. The past is permanent. You can't bring back your father."

"Damn it, Merlin!" Arthur bursts. "I don't want my father back, and I don't want to bring back the evils he bestowed upon this land. I just can't bring harm to my sister when I see so much of myself in her."

The careful facade on Merlin's face vanishes with Arthur's words, leaving only anger to be seen. He expresses his rage further with a focused punch at the cement wall behind Arthur's head. Arthur jerks his head around to see, and the wall crumbles on the impact. Merlin's hand is perfectly unharmed, but the tiles instantly shatter. The action is so unlike Merlin's typical behaviour that it feels surreal.

"Do you even understand what I've done for you?" Merlin surges to his feet, more furious than seems reasonable to Arthur. "I can't stop thinking of how I killed your father, of how I killed _Gaius._ For you. All of it was for you. I don't need credit. I don't want it. What I need is for you to do something about Morgana. If you're unwilling, then I'll do it."

"Merlin, please—"

"No, I mean it. I'll do it. I don't mind. I'll subdue her by whatever means necessary, even if you won't. She won't change. She can't change, not after the things she's done and the person she's become. People like her are beyond help. There's no possible recovery for people like Morgana and I. We became weapons of destruction for different reasons, but that's who we are. Her actions came out of her malicious intent, and mine were for the sake of something greater, for you. There's no coming back from that, but I never knew that until it was too late for me. There's still hope for you."

As he speaks, Merlin rests his head against the wall. With each sentence that he speaks, he leans more heavily on it, sliding down bit by bit, as if overcome by the weight of his words. By the time he's done speaking, he's almost kneeling on the floor. Arthur rushes to his side, cradling his face, gently caressing him the way he'd just done for Arthur moments earlier.

"Do you really feel this way?" he whispers. Merlin doesn't nod, doesn't speak, but instead begins to quiver. Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin's back, pulling him close and holding them both still. "You have saved me a hundred times over. Anything bad you've done doesn't outweigh that."

"It does. You don't understand." Merlin tries to push against him, but Arthur holds on tighter, doesn't allow the space between them to grow.

"I do!" Arthur nearly shouts, but only barely restrains himself. Instead, he draws away to glare resolutely at Merlin. "I'm a soldier. It's what I do. I know how you feel."

"No," Merlin insists. "You don't."

This time he manages to shove off Arthur. Arthur catches sight of shining eyes – it's impossible to tell if it's from anger, magic, tears, or something else. He's pressing his luck, he knows, but Arthur can't help but try and approach Merlin anyway. Merlin throws him against the wall, an arm over his throat for a moment that lasts too long. Arthur claws at him, but it does no good. He scrambles against the wall, searching for a hold on the wall. Grasping a misshapen portion of the wall, he uses it as leverage while he kicks out at Merlin. Something holds him in place, keeps him from striking Merlin. Strong hands replace the invisible force and wrap tightly around his wrists, forcing them above Arthur's head, holding him in place.

"Stop," he chokes out, struggling against the force of Merlin's combined physical and magical strength.

"You know nothing of how it feels to have this hanging over my head. Killing two men in cold blood – you think I should be able to move on? I can't. The memories are like a noose that tightens around my neck with every passing day. There's no going back, and you... you will never understand that."

Merlin grits his teeth and curls his lips in a snarl that's too animalistic to be anything but terrifying. His face distorts into something terrifying and Arthur forces back the tears that threaten to spill over, focusing his attention on the pain in his wrist to distract himself in whatever way possible.

"Please, Merlin," he begs, his voice shaky. "Please."

Merlin's eyes widen and his face untwists until the malice slips away entirely. He drops his hold on Arthur, and he draws away sharply. Neither of them look the other in the eye. Arthur turns away to cough, holding a hand gently to his throat.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," his apology is muffled with a sob. "I don't know why I did that. I've always—I never want to hurt you. Ever."

"You're in mourning," Arthur explains away, yet keeps his distance. "And in shock. I don't blame you."

"You should, though. You should be angry with me, you should refuse to be in my presence, you should be sending me away... I will make it up to you. Somehow."

"You don't need to."

"I do. And first, I'm going to take care of Morgana. You won't have to deal with her. Let me do this for you. I need to do this. Please."

"Merlin, I don't want her harmed." Frustrated, he stamps his foot. It's a childish and petty, he knows, but he can't help it, not when Merlin is so stubborn.

"Whether you want to guarantee her safety or not, it doesn't matter. We can't let her free, or she'll turn around and attack you at some point. You also don't have the means to keep her down there. I have to do something, whether you like it or not."

He spares a brief glance for Arthur, only just waiting until there’s a nod of acknowledgement, before he quickly retreats out into the sun. Arthur remains behind, hanging his head, pressing his hands against his eyes, unsure what to think. He'll never be able to control Morgana. That much is indisputable, yet he hesitates to admit it. She has always remained important, in one capacity or another, to Arthur. As they were children together, grew up together, dealt with the reality of a king like Uther as a father figure together... Even after Morgana made it obvious that she intended to take the throne from the Pendragon men, he felt a certain kinship with her. Foolish though he always knew it to be, he secretly admired her for standing her ground where Arthur never did.

Even now, with his half-sister locked in the dungeons, Arthur keeps from Merlin a hidden desire – no matter how impossible – that she might be rehabilitated, that they could one day work together, no matter how impossible the idea sounds. She may not deserve another chance, but he can't help but ponder that if she might be given one, then he might also be forgiven for his own deeds.

And then there's Merlin... Merlin, who he trusts more than anyone, who's always cared more deeply than everyone, who has always done everything necessary to do what's right. Merlin, who moments earlier attacked Arthur because they disagreed on if Merlin was hopeless or not. It terrifies Arthur to be so uncertain of Merlin's behaviour, to wonder if he's going out of his mind, if he can still be trusted.

As soon as Arthur gathers his senses – which admittedly takes much longer than it ought to – he shakes himself of his contemplations and follows Merlin. The courtyard is far too sunny, and it makes everything seem surreal. People run about, gossiping while they work. Nobody stops him, or even seems to notice Arthur pass by, and he couldn't be more grateful for that fact.

When he reaches the cell, Gwaine stands before it, initially unaware of Arthur's approach. He blocks Arthur's view of Morgana, though he can see Merlin clutching tightly to the iron bars of the door, his other hand outstretched and his mouth moves with the sound of indistinguishable words.

While he's wary of drawing closer, he does anyway. Upon closer inspection, Gwaine looks enthralled by whatever Merlin's doing. Thin green ribbons materialize in the air and wrap around Morgana's wrists and ankles, not binding them together, but clinging tightly to her nonetheless. At the sound of his approach, Gwaine spins around to face Arthur, confusion and awe flitting across his face. There might be hurt or shock as well, but Arthur doesn't acknowledge it. He keeps his eyes trained on Merlin, but Gwaine, of course, almost immediately starts speaking.

"Magic," he blurts out. "Merlin has _magic._ This is a new development, right? I would have known if he already had it. He's my friend."

Arthur blinks slowly at him, unsure how to respond, but his expression must be enough for Gwaine to discern some measure of the truth. His face falls, but he doesn't look away from Arthur.

"You knew, though," Gwaine states, and not even a sliver of a question can be heard in his voice. "You, the prince – oh, the king – who would have magic users executed... he told you."

"Gwaine, I know it doesn't make sense to you, but it wasn't like he meant to tell me."

"I suppose it probably came out while you were both in bed, didn't it?"

Arthur's jaw drops as he gapes. The hurt is evident on Gwaine's face, but he has never been one to mince words or lie to his friends, and he still looks open and honest as ever.

"I don't know where you get that idea," Arthur huffs.

"Everyone knows it," Gwaine prods, seeming to warm up to this line of conversation. "Well, a few of your men know. Leon, Elyan, Mordred when he was here... Just a few of us. Some of the late night patrols get boring, and gossiping helps to pass the time. "

Panic must be obvious on Arthur's face; Gwaine shrugs and softens his tone before continuing on.

"We haven't told a soul. Well, Elyan may have told his sister. Or it may have been me. I'm not sure anymore."

He pauses for a moment, and in that time Arthur, suddenly fearful, takes a step backward. He reaches out to the wall beside him, searching blindly for something to hold onto. Gwaine quickly catches on and steps forward, slowly and smoothly, trying to calm him like one might calm an alarmed animal.

"Honestly, Arthur, there are only a few of us who know. And yes, Gwen too, but that woman can force anyone to spill their secrets."

"Gwaine, you can't tell people," Arthur pleads, his desperation obvious in the fact that Gwaine looks away, scratching behind his neck. "I'm the king; people can't know, I shouldn't—"

"Yes, you're the king," Merlin interrupts, repeating Arthur's words deliberately, as though speaking to a child, and approaching even more slowly than he speaks. "You're the king, ordained by God, and you don't need the approval of your people in regards to your own life."

"Yes, I do! Merlin, that's why we—" A sharp look from Merlin cuts him off and reminds him that they're not alone, that they can't discuss the matter of their murderous recent past in front of Gwaine. "—I want their approval. It's important to me."

Subtle movements and soft shuffling sounds behind Merlin serve as a reminder of the issue at hand, of what had been on his mind before his focus was disrupted by Gwaine and Merlin. He looks past the two men. At the far end of the cell is Morgana. She's curled up on the small cot, but her sounds and movements become more drawn out, nearing wakefulness.

"What did you do to her?" Worry mixes with irritation and pure curiosity.

"He took it from me," Morgana chimes in, quiet as she lifts her head and sits carefully with her back to the wall, arms hanging defencelessly over her knees. She doesn't bother looking at Arthur at all, her attention immediately stolen by Merlin. "How could you do this to me? To someone like you?" Every sentence, every word sounds angrier than the last until she is practically spitting with rage.

"The bonds keep her from using magic," Merlin tells Arthur, refusing to look at Morgana. "They also cannot be removed without magic, so she's effectively powerless. You didn't want her harmed, and this is the only thing I can do to guarantee that she won't harm you instead."

"What could you possibly gain from doing this to your own kind?" Morgana demands to know. "You're no good for any cause. Not Arthur's, because of your magic, and not mine, because of your betrayal. You're worth nothing."

Merlin turns to stare at her, expressionless, for a long moment. Arthur exchanges a concerned glance with Gwaine, but both of them maintain their distance. Neither of them are willing to break the solemnity hanging over them with a question, yet neither of them fully understand the odd confrontation between Merlin and Morgana. Being at a loss for words is a new experience for Gwaine, yet he handles it well, not even fidgeting nervously. Arthur cannot boast the same.

"You deserve it," Merlin informs her, but his voice is filled apprehension rather than indignation or anger. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, calming himself. When he opens his eyes again, he looks resigned, even sad. "We both deserve it. I just got to you first."

Merlin looks disappointed at his own words, but the expression quickly disappears, replaced by a practiced blank look. Arthur catches sight of it before it leaves, though. He doesn't know if Gwaine does, but it doesn't matter. Gwaine surely could hear the tone in Merlin's voice, could hear the emptiness.

Merlin feeling hopeless, revealing that emptiness on his face, is enough to spring Arthur into action no matter their surroundings. Merlin's hasty retreat out of the room is halted by Arthur's hand on his elbow. He spares a passing glance for Arthur. The wildness that has lingered in his eyes since Uther's death has faded to its least terrifying, the fear gone. All that remains in its wake is mad determination and the anger Arthur experienced first-hand in the stables. Merlin shakes his head, tears his arm out of Arthur's grip, and continues walking away.

"You'll pay for your deeds," Morgana calls after him, making him pause for a moment.

"I know. I look forward to it."

Merlin finally leaves. Without discussing or acknowledging it, Arthur and Gwaine follow him out. Their resolve to accompany him is cut short when Merlin turns around, a hand on either of their chests, shoving them away.

"No," he insists. "Let me be. I have things to take care of."

He's gone before any objection can be made, leaving behind Gwaine, utterly confused, and Arthur, entirely worried.

Arthur spends the next two days ignoring Merlin. After the violence displayed in the stables and the refusal to cooperate or communicate in regards to Morgana, he was so irritated he could hardly stand to be in Merlin's presence. Their avoidance of each other is mutual and relatively equal, so it comes as a surprise to find Merlin waiting for him inside his rooms, looking more nervous and out of place than he ever has in the room, even at the start of his employment.

"What are you doing in here? If you don't mind, I'd like to have some quiet."

Merlin hasn't slept in Arthur's room the past two nights, and his assistance has rarely been necessary in the evening hours. Where Merlin has stayed the last two nights is a mystery, one that Arthur would rather not know the answer to, and he certainly has no intention of finding out now. However, they have not discussed in any further detail the issue between them, and after a long day of politics, policies, and mind-games with his council, he'd rather not have that conversation with Merlin just now. Merlin shuffles around, avoiding eye contact, and toys fretfully with a bottle of ink from Arthur's desk.

"I can't stay here any longer," Merlin says after a long wait.

"Exactly," Arthur rolls his eyes. "As I said, I need quiet to work right now. We can have this conversation another day."

"No," Merlin objects, hitting the bottle against the desk, gripping it so tightly his knuckles whiten. He refuses to look up at Arthur. "I mean that I'm leaving, and I won't come back. I told you I would always be here to help, but I'm not helping. I'm hurting you more than I'm helping anyone."

"Of course you're helping," Arthur interjects, horrified by Merlin's words. "You've always helped me. Everything good that I do is because of you."

"Not anymore," Merlin mutters. "You've reached your goal, your destined spot on the throne. You're where you ought to be, and I'm only doing damage. I will only bring you harm."

He slams the ink bottle against the side of Arthur's writing desk again. It strikes harder this time, or perhaps simply at the wrong angle, but whatever the reason, whatever the cause, it shatters, spattering everything – Merlin, the floor, the desk. Merlin looks entirely unsurprised and probably broke it intentionally.

"I destroy everything I touch," Merlin fumes, his face scrunched, contorted with emotions. "There's no good left in me, and I will ruin you."

"How could you think that? You're everything to me. Please don't do this."

"Don't make this any harder than it already is!" Merlin's eyes shining with tears. "It's necessary. I'm doing nothing but harming you. Before I do anything worse, I have to leave. I have to protect you, even if it means protecting you from myself."

Arthur takes a cautious step forward. When Merlin doesn't react at all, he takes more, crossing the small room until he wraps his arms around Merlin's waist, his forehead against Merlin's. The gesture is returned, and they both hold on so tightly it hurts, but neither relents.

"I need you here with me," Arthur whispers, mouth hovering near Merlin's lips. "I won't even be able to bear this secret alone. I don't want to remember what this place was like without you. Please."

"You can, and you will," Merlin insists.

Arthur closes his eyes as Merlin kisses him, soft and brief, and when he opens them, Merlin is staring at him with a profound sadness.

"I'm going tonight. Don't follow me when I leave here," Merlin commands him, but still clings tightly. "I mean it, Arthur."

And then Merlin is pulling away, despite Arthur's best attempts to hold him to his chest forever. Merlin wipes away a tear that fell on Arthur's face without his notice, thumb lingering on his cheek.

"I don't understand. You don't have to leave," Arthur begs, still grabbing desperately at Merlin in whatever way he can, an elbow, a sleeve, a belt, but Merlin always manages to slip away.

"I wish that were true. Goodbye, Arthur."

Arthur remains frozen to his spot, but only for a moment. It's still too long a moment, and Merlin uses it to make his escape. He quickly regains his thoughts and his will to move, tries to follow Merlin out, but finds the door locked. He tries his key, but nothing budges. He tries over and over again, repeatedly slamming the weight of his body into the door, and he even tries to pry the door open with an iron rod from the hearth. Nothing works, but he cannot stop trying. There doesn't even seem to be anyone on the other side capable of hearing his futile attempts. He continues long after the rest of the castle has gone to bed, refusing to give up.

Finally, finally, the door opens. Smoothly, without cracking or anything else unnatural. He looks closely at it, and his efforts don't seem to have damaged the door, and he knows that something must be wrong if Merlin's magic no longer holds him in. He dashes through the corridors, uncaring that his noise might wake others. Merlin isn't in the physician's quarters, and likely hasn't stayed there since Arthur took him away after Gaius' death. Earlier, he had assumed Merlin had been staying with one of his knights, and he debates checking any of the knights' rooms, but decides against rousing them in the middle of the night unless if it proves necessary. He inquires with the men he encounters patrolling, but they know nothing. The only information they have is that one man thought Merlin had been staying with Gwen.

"Why didn't her brother tell me that?" He demands to know, though he suspects it probably is due to the fact that he had refused to speak of Merlin over the last two days.

"I don't know, sir," the man admits. "Possibly because Elyan was severely injured days ago at practise, and he hasn't been among us since then."

It's frustrating and embarrassing to realize he knows so little of his men of late. Always distracted with the business of kings or secret-keeping, or something else equally time consuming. He pushes past the feeling, anxious to find Merlin, and leaves them without another word.

He makes his way towards Gwen's home, and he's still from it when he stops at the sight of a lumpy form on the ground, off to the side of the path, but obvious in the moonlight. He hesitates before inspecting it, feels obligated to help his people, and that outweighs his need to wake Gwen in the middle of the night. At a closer look, he wishes he had continued on his way after all. A motionless body sprawled on the stone is the last thing he wants to see, and now he has to follow through completely, and he turns over the person to see their face, hoping he doesn’t recognize them. He doesn't expect to see him there, lying in the dark, lifeless. Arthur draws the limp body into his arms, holding him gently, slapping his face, hoping, hoping against everything.

"No, don't do this," he whispers uselessly, his throat tight around the words. "This is the worst kind of leaving. You can't do this to me, Merlin. Don't you dare do this to me."

There's no response. Nothing Arthur does changes the fact that Merlin isn't moving. He doesn't listen to Arthur's pleas, and never wakes. Arthur clings to him, refuses to let it be true.

He stays there, absently rocking back and forth, cradling Merlin's body with his own, tears on his face, numb to the world around him. Occasionally, he shouts or a particularly violent sob shudders through him. He can't get up. He can't leave Merlin. He can't abandon him to lie alone in the street. They can't both be alone. Not after everything they've been through. When someone finds him, he only vaguely understands what's happening. Somewhere on the fuzzy edge consciousness, he's aware that someone helps him lift Merlin. There are more voices, but none of them make sense.

"Let me take him," are the only words that he understands, and they send terror down his spine. "Not now, Arthur. In the morning, you can see him again. Rest."

It isn't enough to convince him to leave, he tells himself. He isn't that easily persuaded. But he's far away from Merlin before he realizes that he's being half-dragged along the streets, obligingly following someone who takes him by the forearm and leads him to his own bedchambers.

For all of Merlin's talk of departing, Arthur had never expected this. Never saw it coming, never would have thought Merlin was implying his own death with his insistence that he needed to leave.

Arthur doesn't sleep that night. Instead he alternates between curling up on Merlin's side of the bed and staring at the spot near his desk where Merlin last stood. Ink that he never cleaned the night before is now dull in the moonlight. When he tries hard enough, he can convince himself that Merlin isn't gone, isn't even going to leave. When the sun rises, he'll return with breakfast, and they'll resolve the problems between them. He buries his nose in the indent left by Merlin's head. His scent still lingers there; if his smell remains, he can't be gone. Even as sunlight and market noises begin to stream through his windows, a sharp rap on the door is the only thing that rattles him into alertness.

He doesn't go to the door. Nothing not even as the knocking continues, each moment more harshly than the last. At last it stops, but Arthur only has seconds to appreciate the respite before the door bursts open. Leon. Of course, it's always Leon intruding.

"I'm sorry to abuse your key—"

"Yes, and just how did you come across it?" Arthur demands to know, letting his emotions manifests into anger, but he doesn't care.

"Last night, sir," Leon flushes deeply, averting his gaze. "You kept fumbling with it, and you couldn't even unlock the door. I took it for safekeeping and no other reason."

Arthur barely has seconds to feel ashamed of his assumptions before Leon changes the subject.

"I wanted to return it to you," he assures Arthur. "But that isn't why I charged in here. I know you've been keeping secrets lately. Don't worry," he amends when Arthur startles visibly. "I don't know what your secrets are, and I don't want to. I know you've been through a lot, that there's a lot you're dealing with, and you're mourning, but there's someone downstairs that is demanding to speak with you."

"Send them away," Arthur commands before flopping onto his stomach again, disinterested in anyone's petty demands. "I don't want to see anyone today. I think that's reasonable."

"I would if it were possible. It's Mordred. And he's very insistent." And that's enough to catch Arthur's complete attention again. "If I hadn't come to get you, he would have been banging at your door rather than me."

"What does he want?"

Arthur rushes to make himself look presentable for public eyes. He nearly asks for Leon's assistance once, but he doesn't want anyone's help but Merlin's, he doesn't want to be near anyone who isn't Merlin, and it's hard enough pulling himself together at this moment. He briefly considers donning armour, but tells himself he doesn't want to set Mordred off. More than that, he can't justify wearing it without Merlin carefully adjusting each piece until everything fits properly. He manages on his own, and if he's ruffled, Leon doesn't say a word about it.

"I don't know, Arthur, but please, please be careful."

Arthur levels him with a dark look. Recklessness sounds like a perfect antidote to his mood.

Every step he takes is heavy, each stair pulls him downwards more heavily than the last. Too alive for the weight of his body, everything hurts every time he moves, breathes, or thinks. His father's death had submerged Arthur into a fog that wholly numbed him. Losing Merlin, however, sends a spike of pain through him that starts in his heart and spreads over his skin. The cold stone of the wall against his fingers is sharp and surprising. It's not fair for anything to have such an effect on Arthur when he can longer be warmed by Merlin's touch.

His footsteps thud loudly in his ears, the sound disrupted only by the rustle of his clothing and Leon's careful breathing beside him. He hurries along, terrified that Leon will notice him sinking so irrevocably into himself in his need to fill the hole in his heart.

Waiting for him in a small, sparsely furnished room that hasn't been occupied since Uther last used it, Mordred appears genuinely pleased to see Arthur. The wide grin that greets Arthur is perplexing. Arthur nods and gestures to Leon, who backs out of the room, shutting the door and leaving Mordred and Arthur alone.

"Why are you here?"

Arthur's curt words make Mordred's smile falter and shift into something dark imitation that's unfamiliar on that face.

"I heard rumours of your father's death. I have to say, I hadn't heard any rumours about myself, so it came as a surprise to be greeted by friends trying to arrest me."

Arthur cringes and instinctively reaches for the door, intending to speak with Leon about their treatment of Mordred. Merlin had condemned Mordred in the aftermath of Uther's death, and Arthur ought to follow suit now; he can't. The thought of Mordred suffering for crimes that aren't his own spikes yet another pang of guilt through Arthur, and he can't take the extra weight on his heart.

Mordred must misread Arthur's intentions, and his eyes flash angry. Angry and golden. The unexpected burst of colour reminds him so sharply of Merlin that he recoils. He withdraws from the suddenly hot door, and away from Mordred. They're not the right set of glowing blue eyes. It doesn't matter that Mordred is magic; the only thing that matters is that he'll never see Merlin's eyes again, but he has to see Mordred's. Nobody but Merlin ought to have eyes like that. He doesn't want anything more than he wants Merlin back, but all he has here is Mordred. Mordred, who—

"I didn't kill him, Arthur," Mordred insists, breaking Arthur's line of thought. "I don't know who killed your father or why I'm being blamed, but it wasn't me."

"I know," Arthur says gravely, then instantly wishes the words back.

"You know?" Mordred's incredulous. Confusion wrinkles his face. "Then why condemn me as a murderer?" When Arthur doesn't respond, the lines of confusion on his face morph into fury. "It's the magic, isn't it? Who told you? It was Merlin, wasn't it? I never should have let him convince me to leave. I should have known he was up to something. If he wasn't dead already, I'd kill him myself."

"Don't talk about him! He doesn't deserve your cruelty. And he didn't tell me a thing about anyone's magic, least of all yours. You were nothing to him." Arthur tries to subdue the simultaneous pain at the mention of Merlin and the fact that Merlin knew about Mordred's magic long ago; he had never stopped hiding things, and he'd shared secrets with Mordred.

"Don't lie for him. It's a bit pointless now that he's dead, isn't it? He told you about my magic, but not his own?" Mordred snarls. "My blade was stolen that day I left, and I know Merlin could have taken it, but you—" Realization lights up his face. "You know that it was stolen. You must have conspired with him to frame me. Arthur, you had your manservant frame a knight for a murder you committed." He's almost right, and Arthur's heart races. "You're more like your father than you think."

Arthur clenches his jaw, the sting of the accusation mixing with the pain of the truth. To the best of his ability, he tamps down on the swell of rage that threatens to burst out of him at any moment.

"Merlin was threatened by me," Mordred continues, his voice fastidiously calm. "And now you fear me, don't you?"

"Nothing frightens me. Not now," Arthur declares, voice clear and entirely honest. "I'm not afraid of you or your magic."

"I can see that, though you ought to be." Mordred scoffs, shaking his head, before going on. "You may not be scared of me, but you're nothing without Merlin, aren't you? Not even afraid of death? You would even welcome it, wouldn't you?"

Arthur refuses to answer, to give him the satisfaction of being right. Mordred has always been observant, and it makes Arthur feel unbalanced. There's truth to his words, but Arthur can't give him affirmation of it.

"I'm nothing without dignity or honour. I lost all of that."

"You lost it with Merlin?" Mordred smirks slightly, but some sort of realization must dawn on him, as the expression fades. He tilts his head slightly, watching Arthur thoughtfully. "You mean it. Other than condemning me for no reason except that you preferred Merlin over me, what kind of atrocities have you been committing?"

Arthur refuses to answer. He stares resolutely away from Mordred – at the window, the door, anything other than that piercing gaze. If he makes eye contact, Mordred will surely see the truth in its entirety.

"Whatever it is, you don't deserve better than anyone else. You condemned me as you condemned Morgana – because of our magic. I had hoped your treatment of Morgana was not what I'd heard, but you've proved me wrong in many ways in a very short time."

The idea astounds Arthur. He blinks hard, shifts his gaze quickly up to Mordred, who still hasn't looked away. Fierce determination shines in his eyes, tightens in his fists, steadies itself in his solid stance. It's instantly obvious that there will never be any reasoning with him, not like this.

"I didn't want to hurt you. Really. But after what you let Merlin do to me and the state in which you're keeping Morgana, I can't let you continue this. It goes against every fibre of my being."

Despite his words, Mordred draws his sword. Arthur quickly does the same.

"You don't have to do this," Arthur insists, nearly desperate to avoid fighting Mordred, but he still swings, but he's too careless, and Mordred easily leans out of reach. He grabs Arthur's arm, pulls him forward with his own momentum, muttering strange, indiscernible words. Arthur pulls away, but too late; every movement feels like fire in his limbs, and he struggles to keep from shouting in pain. He pushes past the pain – he has to – and clings to the back of a wooden chair for a moment of support.

Mordred takes too long to spring into action again. His eyes flash, but Arthur, accustomed to practicing with Merlin, isn't perturbed. Despite the pain coursing through his veins, he shifts his grip on the chair and lifts it, smashes it into Mordred's side. Thrown off balance, Mordred stumbles, concentration disturbed. Somewhere in his rush, though, Arthur dropped his sword, and now he scrambles for it. Arthur's on his hands and knees reaching for it on the ground, when Mordred gathers himself, and a hard boot kicks Arthur's stomach. He groans and reflexively curls into himself.

"Does being the king make you incapable of fighting?" Mordred asks, keeping Arthur down with a foot on his arm.

"No, but I don't want to fight you," Arthur admits, inhaling sharply at the pain in his arm. It feels like an early defeat, and he wishes that bothered him more.

Mordred must sense the change in Arthur's attitude, and takes advantage of it.

"Not willing to fight for the throne? You won't kill me to keep it?"

"I don't want it." As soon as the words stumble from his mouth, Arthur regrets it. "But I'm better than the last person on it."

"Do you really believe that?"

There's no hint of malice in Mordred's voice, and Arthur twists to look at him properly. There's only calm consideration to be found on Mordred's face.

"Sometimes," Arthur confesses. Then he thinks of Merlin, of everything he's lost along the way, and it doesn't matter. "No. But it's my duty now. I have to try to make this right."

"No, you don't. Then let someone else take the responsibility. You're no better than the people who you have fought against. Do you want to be an imitation of your father?" Mordred's voice is quiet, and a sharp contrast to the heel in his arm and the sword at his throat.

It's a strange conversation to begin with, but with an arm that's likely broken and a heavy boot pinning him down, it's even more bizarre.

"I've been listening to the rumours, Arthur. Of how weak your rule has been since it began. It won't be tolerated. There's already unrest outside Camelot's borders. You would create an opportunity for peace if you were to step down let someone more capable take your place."

"I can't simply resign from being king. It doesn't work that way. Besides, there's nobody to replace me."

Mordred releases a long sigh and steps away. Though his arm is still in pain, the absence of weight on it feels marvellous. Arthur pulls himself into a sitting position with his undamaged arm. He debates stand and restarting their fight, but the sensation in his broken sword arm reminds him that he can't, even if he wanted to.

"Your dear sister would, naturally." Arthur tries to object, but Mordred holds up a hand in a wordless demand for silence. "Let me explain; it would work rather well. She's the only person in your bloodline. She may want the throne for power, but she respects me. She'll listen to me, and she will make the kingdom a better place for magic users – Merlin would have wanted that – and I will help get her to that point. Rulers of neighbouring kingdoms already fear her enough that they will keep their distance."

"But the things she's done..."

"And what of the things you have done?" Arthur remains quiet, shifting in discomfort, unable to fake innocence. "Whatever happened with Uther, I know you had a hand in it. Don't you see that this is what's best?"

He finds that he believes Mordred. He shouldn't trust him, but he knows his own shortcomings. He hadn't even known about the unrest at the borders. Leon has spent more time coddling him than anything else he ought to do.

The only good he had done for Camelot was to get rid of Uther, and since then Arthur has floundered on how to act in every circumstance. He isn't helping his people. Leon always tells him of the unrest caused by his own guilt-weakened rule. Perhaps there is something Arthur can yet do to help his people. His heart leaps in his throat as he wonders if he'd be with Merlin once more and that is suddenly enough.

"Then end this for me." Arthur struggles to his feet and spreads his arms wide, as though for an embrace. "Please, just do it."

Merlin had done what was best for Arthur. Now, it's Arthur's turn to do the same, but for Camelot.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Art masterpost) Make Mad the Guilty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/954537) by [crimsonswirls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls/pseuds/crimsonswirls)




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